Andith Songbook
by Tarlea
Summary: A collection of song-inspired short (or maybe not so short) fics, all about Anthony Strallan and Edith Crawley. All genres and ratings possible (starting with some M...).
1. Preface: As the Song Writer Wrote

_The song is ended,_

 _but as the songwriter wrote: the melody lingers on._

-Ira Gershwin

* * *

 **A/N: If you've ever read any of my stories, you know how often a song inspires me to scribble a fic or how often I use songs in fics. So I decided, in an attempt to get me producing more short fics rather than unfinished multichapters, to write a collection of song-inspired fics. So, here's the plan: one song inspired fic for each letter of the alphabet.**

 **However, if you've read any of my fic you know that my muse does what it wants, plans be damned. So these won't necessarily be in alphabetical order. But hopefully enjoyable, and hopefully I actually finish this collection. But whatever comes, I hope you enjoy, and I thank you, as always for your readership and kind support.**

 **And here's a little bonus…**

* * *

Edith passed by stand after stand of displayed jewelry, scarves, hats, gloves. One hand was clamped firmly around her daughter's. They were shopping for Aunt Rosamund's birthday present and Marigold had come along. They turned the corner into an open room with polished marble floors and a glass ceiling which streamed sunlight upon them. In the center, a beautiful grand piano echoed its tinkling notes through the hall. She and Marigold stood, listening for a moment, clapped lightly when the song ended, and then turned to continue their shopping.

Edith was I the midst of examining a beaded handbag when the new melody reached her ears, and her heart.

It was a waltz, simple and yet sweeping, a melody for lovers. It was as familiar to her as the sound of Marigold's laughter, though she hadn't heard it in years.

It was the song she and Anthony had selected to be their marriage waltz.

She was unable to keep herself from turning towards the music.

And as she did so she met a pair of beautiful, adoring blue eyes.

He smiled at her.

And then, she awoke.

XXX


	2. I - It's All Right With Me

**A/N: Rated M for scenes of a decidedly sexual nature. A while ago I decided to try and see if, I could write a sex scene entirely from Anthony's POV, as I often default to Edith's. A bit long because I couldn't find a place to divide it, but hopefully enjoyable nonetheless. :)**

* * *

I - It's All Right With Me

Music & Lyrics by Cole Porter

As recorded by Frank Sinatra.

XXX

 _It's the wrong time and the wrong place._

 _Though your face is charming, it's the wrong face._

 _It's not her face, but such a charming face,_

 _That it's all right with me._

XXX

Anthony Strallan swallowed, ice clacking to the bottom of his glass as he brought it level. The late afternoon sun glittered in a small puddle of Scotch still to be tasted, and he raised the tumbler once more, the cool, curved glass of the rim pressing comfortingly into the soft flesh of his lip as the amber-gold liquid rolled into his throat, adding to the numbing haze that he'd been cultivating over the past hour. He sighed and leaned his head back into the spine of the soft brown sofa. That was a lie, he thought. We tell ourselves that alcohol numbs the pain, when all it really does is distract us from it for a while.

He closed his eyes. A driving bass from the block party on the street below thrummed through the walls and into his pathetic solitude. He often dealt with such noise; he'd opted for a cheap single apartment after Maud had died and so, obviously, did many of London's university students. This party had begun earlier than usual; a post exam, pre-commencement bash. Usually the noise didn't bother him; he could tone it out. But tonight it just made him feel old and alone. As if the world and everyone in it were moving to that rhythm and he was standing by watching it happen; an old rhythm that didn't fit with anyone else's.

He knew he was wallowing. He knew he was making too much of nothing. But he couldn't help it.

It was all because of Elizabeth. She was the one who had suggested he start dating again. He'd agreed that three years of living as a hermit was likely sufficient. But where did he go anymore? Where did one meet people the other side of forty? And so he had tried the internet.

Over the past few months there had been a handful of dates with perfectly lovely but uninspiring women, and then for the six weeks weeks there had been Anne. Beautiful, intelligent, and a surviving spouse like him, they'd engaged in a lively e-correspondence; culminating in their first actual meeting two days ago. He'd been enchanted, enjoyed himself very much and had allowed himself to hope that maybe they had a future together. The promise of companionship; even love, was too glorious a dream to resist. And once he had let down the careful barriers that allowed him to cope with his solitary life he'd been unable to reconstruct them. So, when he received her email this morning, informing him that she'd had another date with a gentleman she preferred and that she was no longer interested in pursuing a relationship with him, it had utterly crumpled him. Joining her tactful and even complimentary rejection were choruses of self-loathing proclaiming his unworthiness to be with someone like her; to be with anyone; to be loved at all. The easy spiral into loneliness as black as a moonless night, a night that seemed never to give way to dawn.

A clear tone came echoing through the flat. He sat forward instinctively as it was followed by another, which somehow sounded more agitated in spite of its being the same two notes. He levered his long limbs beneath him and ambled to the door.

"Hello."

Standing in the doorway was a young woman, a stray from the party he guessed, a tipsy twenty-something. Several silent moments passed, his alcohol fogged brain spending too much time ogling his unexpected visitor to remember his manners. He examined her, taking in the lithe figure, luminous in the streaming sunlight. Strong shoulders emerged from beneath a floral sundress, which clung to subtle curves and revealed a pair of long legs, clad in a pair of yellow knee leggings. He blinked, pushing away the immediate image of lean creamy thighs, stripped of their yellow stockings. He shifted his somewhat hazy focus to her face. Intelligent brown eyes gazed up at him, set above smooth sun-pinked cheeks and a long nose. Below this, two soft pink lips arced shyly upwards, though the corners in fact, turned slightly downward, giving her a shrewd, dignified look. Together, her features were not precisely _beautiful_ , but fascinating, arresting, and damned alluring. Not that he ought to be looking, he scolded himself.

Her voice, pinched with embarrassment, broke into his observations. "I'm so sorry to intrude, but I was wondering if I might beg a first aid kit." Here she raised her arm to revealed a skinned elbow, and gestured with her other hand at her knee. Now that he wasn't imagining her bare thighs he registered the scraped bloody kneecap pushing through a tear in her leggings.

His eyebrows rose in concern. "Of course. Please, come in."

As they made their way to the living room, Anthony shook his head, trying to clear the alcohol induced grogginess that he had until now been so desirous of. His conscience told him he ought to focus, and yet all he could seem to focus on was the memory of those deep brown eyes…

When they reached the living room, he waved her to the sofa. She slumped down, eying the half-empty bottle and incriminating glass.

"Partying yourself are you?" she observed wryly.

He frowned a little, then sighed. "If you count a pity-party. Quite pathetic I'm afraid. I'll just be a moment."

A few minutes later he returned, wielding a damp washcloth and a blue box with a red cross.

He handed them over and watched as she dabbed at her elbow, trying not to fixate on the way her mouth twisted in concentration, wrinkling the tip of her long nose. He could imagine her like that, pouring over a textbook, studying for her exams. It was an utterly kissable nose, he thought. But God where the hell was _that_ coming from? What was he some kind of randy teenager? He threw an accusing glance at the Scotch bottle.

"What happened?" he asked at last.

She grimaced. "I..uh..fell. Tripped on something," she said uncomfortably.

"Oh dear," he said, ensuring his words held no judgement. "But you're all right?"

"Yes. Nothing hurt but my pride."

"Well, that's good," he smiled at her, meaning it to be reassuring, but it felt bigger and dopier than he intended.

 _Oh come_ _on_ _, get a grip._

She moved to clean her knee, the injury there bad enough to need a bandage, and he watched, managing to make polite small talk even though he was mesmerized by the movements of her strong determined fingers as she swabbed, snipped, and dressed her knee. It had been so long since he had watched a woman do something so curiously intimate, much less this lovely young woman who intrigued him immensely.

All finished, she sighed and stretched, leaning back in the sofa and casting an approving eye around the bookshelf-lined room. To his surprise, she seemed reluctant to leave.

"Are you celebrating your degree?" he asked at last.

Her eyes returned to his, brown pools simmering with a dozen unspoken observations. Internally, his intellect licked its lips. He wanted to know those thoughts, to discover the mind behind the captivating exterior.

"I am," she replied with the self-satisfaction borne of hard work completed. "in English literature and writing."

"A-ha! A writer! I should have smelled the ink! My uncle was writer."

"Oh? What did he write?"

"Nothing designed to make the bestseller list. He was a naturalist; so he mostly wrote naturelogues and fishing manuals."

He grinned merrily. She laughed.

"Well," she said, sobering slightly, "I don't know a thing about fishing, so it's a good thing there's someone else out there to write about it."

"And what _do_ you write?"

"That is the question isn't it? With my degree finished, I get to find out."

The tone of her voice told him that she wasn't exactly secure in the possibility.

"I'm sure you'll do splendidly. What do you _think_ you'd like to write?"

"Novels, probably. Maybe some basic journalism. I did the university paper. Even wrote a short play produced by the theatre fraternity."

"No poems?"

"Oh, well, _everyone_ writes poems. How else would we nurse a broken heart?" she said with an air of playful melodrama.

His smiled curled inward and his eyes guiltily traced the bottle on the table.

"Aren't you missing the party?" he said after a long moment.

She colored.

"Yes, I guess so. But…I'm not really a party person. I feel like….I never have anything to say. It's funny, because as a writer you'd think I'd have no trouble..." She shrugged and gave a self-deprecating smile.

"I know just what you mean," he agreed. "You think 'well no one wants to hear about what _I'm_ interested in, so better say nothing.'"

"Yes _exactly_. It sounds so smug to say it out loud, but why would I spend an evening getting pissed and attempting to have opinions about things that bore me? I'd much rather…"

She didn't finish, but her eyes met his and her blush deepened. Had she been going to say "stay here"?

"I've read that 19th Century hostesses sometimes carried a book with them during parties to help stimulate conversation," he said.

"Now that would make it _easy_!" Her next thought gurgled out of her in a laugh. "Though I imagine it would get tedious to lug around _The Complete Works of Shakespeare_ all night."

He chuckled too.

"Perhaps you could start with something a _bit_ lighter."

"Well, if it was _that_ crowd," she flung a thumb towards the street outside, "it'd have to be _Green Eggs and Ham_. College boys." She said with an illustrative grimace that made him chuckle again. "Especially this guy my friend was trying to set me up with. Sure I've had a few drinks, but I'm not so tipsy that I'd fall down and skin my knee without his show-off hackey-sack maneuvers helping me down."

"Well, it may sound odd, but I'm rather glad he did," he said, in spite of himself. In vino veritas, he thought, casting a glance at the Scotch.

She smiled at him. "So am I."

Her keen brown eyes were softer now, large and warm. He felt that warmth spread through him and tug the corners of his mouth into what he was sure was a hopelessly besotted grin.

"I'm Edith by the way," she said.

"Anthony."

She beamed in acknowledgement.

From there the talk passed to a comparison of their views on everything from literature to pizza toppings. Conversation flowed so easily between them, aided by a few healthy doses of Scotch, that they hardly noticed the growing dark. Once the thought occurred to Anthony that it was strange that Edith's friends didn't come looking for her; but he wasn't in the least sorry. Talking to Edith was like exploring a beautiful cave, with one cavern opening onto another even more magnificent than the last; and through each passage was another sparkling crystal drawing him further in.

The faint glow of a summer evening showed through the windows when she finally stood, rather unsteadily. His heart drooped, but he supposed he couldn't expect her to stay forever. The fact that she had been here this long was a welcome miracle.

"Um, where's your loo?" she asked ungracefully.

He felt his heart return to its apex, leaping with an inordinate amount of pleasure. She wasn't leaving.

He stood also, pointing the way down the hall to the loo, then made his way to the kitchen to rustle up something to eat. When she returned he was bent over, peering into the open fridge, reaching for a jar of olives.

He straightened, and caught her eyeing him appraisingly. He blushed, and she pursed her lips self-consciously and looked away. Had she been admiring his…er..behind? He had the impulse to reach behind and touch it, as if to ascertain that it was worth admiring. Like when someone complimented your tie and you then had to check to see which one you were wearing. A thoroughly unhelpful, no doubt Scotch-provoked voice nagged him. _If for some reason she's_ _actually_ _attracted to you, then…_

"I thought you might be hungry." He gestured resolutely to the assortment of foods on the counter before him.

She nodded appreciatively and crossed to examine the smorgasbord. "I've had far too much alcohol and not enough to eat."

"And I," he said, feeling his head swimming with delicious impossibilities, "have had even less."

He tried to train his mind on the snacks before him, but any hope of that was lost as she moved to reach for one of the empty plates stacked in front of him. His pulse quickened suddenly as her scent washed over him. Why he should find makeup and hair product and perfume filtered through sweat and whiskey attractive, he didn't know, but he suddenly found it the single most arousing smell he had ever experienced. Perhaps it was because the scent was buoyed by the warmth of _her_. She was closer now than she had been all evening; and he felt the heat from her body jumping like an electric current the few centimeters to his own skin, urging him towards her like a magnet. He became aware that while in the loo she had removed her torn and stained half-leggings, and the smooth skin emerging from the ruffled hem of her dress was even more delicious than he had imagined. The muscles in his hand tightened. What would it feel like, the Scotch coaxed, that smooth skin beneath his palm? How glorious would it be to reach down and trace the line of a slender thigh, to find his way beneath the floral cotton skirt, to cup the rounded flesh of her buttocks, to draw her to him, meeting her look of surprise with a breathtaking kiss…

What the hell was that? God, he was a pervert. Just because she was attractive and brilliant and an enthralling conversationalist didn't give him license to think of her like that. He was drunk, he reminded himself. And he'd imagined that look before. It was absurd to think that a young, vital woman like her would be attracted to a worn-out pathetic old fool like him.

Just then she looked up at him, proffering a jar of red-pepper jam, and he felt his newly formed resolve slip a little. God, she was fantastic.

"Can you open this? I can't get it."

XXX

 _It's the wrong song in the wrong style_

 _Though your smile is lovely, it's the wrong smile_

 _It's not her smile, but such a lovely smile_

 _So it's all right with me_

XXX

They returned to the living room, washing down their impromptu picnic with more Scotch and convivial conversation.

Food completed, the conversation reached an unusual lull. Anthony watched Edith, in full possession of his leather sofa, back nestled against one arm and her long, milk-peach legs stretching towards the other. She eyed him lazily, and he wished he could know what she was thinking.

And if only he knew. If only he could know that she was admiring his tall, angular frame, mentally caressing the long line of his jaw, craving the taste of the wide, agile lips, imagining the feel of those large, warm hands on her bare legs, and elsewhere… She bit her lip, but he couldn't know that it was because she was sizing him up every bit as animalistically as he had been her.

She cleared her throat and dropped her gaze to his antique Turkey carpet.

"Anthony, I'm sorry to have intruded on your night like this," she said, flatly.

"It's no intrusion, truly. I'm having a lovely time."

She raised her eyes to him once more, her gaze unmistakably sympathetic. "So am I," she said softly.

The tenderness in her voice expanded in his chest.

She continued, once again speaking to the stylized blossoms on his floor.

"Well, I feel I ought to tell you…I feel like a bit of a jerk…and you'll probably think it very….well I dunno, vulgar of me but…" she huffed resignedly. "I don't live in any of these apartments. Mine's around the block. But my friends have an apartment just across the way," she waved a hand at the window which framed the block party and a similar apartment building. "So I'm here a lot, hanging, studying."

Two fingers began to fiddle with the hem of her dress. Anthony tried not to let it distract him.

"Ok," he said, and waited for her to continue.

"So, I've seen you…around. Putting out the trash and coming home from work, and... Sometimes, at night when you sit in here with your laptop with the lights on and the window open…But I mean it's not like I was spying on you or anything, not being creepy just…I'd glance out the window and there you'd be, typing away…"

Several moments passed. He wasn't sure the reaction she required.

"Okay, well there's nothing wrong there, I mean, I'm the one who had the window wide open…"

"So, I was at the party tonight with the same friend, and when mister Olympic hackey sack acquainted me with the pavement, he dared me to knock on _your_ door for help. I could have gone to his flat, it's not like he doesn't have bandaids." This last was said in self-reproof.

"Edith, you don't need to…"

"I just—wanted to meet you," she said shortly.

And he found he had nothing to say. But when she finally looked at him, he eased the mortification in her expression with the beatification in his.

"Well," he said at last. "I'd best get these dishes to the kitchen."

And he stood, scooping up his plate, with only a slight waver. She snatched hers before he could, and followed him to the kitchen.

She placed her plate next to his, and he thought how companionable it looked, as if the plates finally matched simply because one was hers and one was his. He shook his head. That was merely Scotch sentimentality. He really needed to calm down. But his heart thrummed hopefully. _So am I._

She lingered, her hip pressing into the counter mere inches from his own. Her hand slid tentatively along the counter's edge and up over his knuckles. She stroked slowly, as if petting a feral cat she was wary of frightening. Tendrils of sensation spread from her fingertips along his arm and tingling into the base of his skull. Her body was closer now, radiant, and thrillingly alive, a symphony of shallow breaths and humming veins. The warmth of her filled the kitchen as if the oven were on full power, the walls closed in around them, and the only breathable air seemed to exist in the distance between their lips. He gasped a short searing breath and then her small, sweet lips closed over his mouth. And, oh they were delicious.

He responded unconsciously, hungrily, eagerly tasting kiss after kiss as if she were a rich dessert and he'd never eaten anything but plain bread. Her mouth was hot, insistent, and he obeyed its summons, wrapping his arms tight around her, pulling her slim, quivering body against his own. Her lissome fingers threaded into his hair, and her hips pressed forward against his. He growled and gave in to temptation, reaching to grasp the smooth, round bottom. She "mmmm'd" her assent and raised a knee, which upset her balance slightly, making them both wobble ungracefully. A mutual sigh sucked from them as they were forced apart by the unsteadiness.

She planted her feet again, panting and laughing a little.

"I'm not…I don't usually…" she insisted breathily.

How had he not thought her beautiful at first? She was glorious, with her hair tousled and her eyes glowing and her lips plump and wet from his kisses.

"Neither do I, I swear. I'm not really the lecher I seem at the moment."

"Lecher? How old are you?" It was a curious question, as if the thought hadn't occurred to her until now.

"Old enough to know that I shouldn't be doing this."

She seemed to consider this for a moment, then leaned up and kissed him again, a thoroughly luxurious kiss, as if she was savoring the taste of him, as if he was a treat to be devoured. And suddenly it was all he wanted to be, to be devoured by this bewitching young woman, and to do a little devouring himself, too.

He began by snaking his arms around her once more, clutching her small form against his broad chest, this time taking long, slow sips of the nectarous mouth, which tenderly yielded to his ministrations. The shadows of her jaw and the turn of her neck were equally delectable. She breathed fire against his earlobe, bending her neck into his lips, releasing flame in magnificent "huahhhh's" and deep gasps. He felt his flesh roar to life, crackling and spitting with white hot sensation.

A sharp, percussive crash broke into his consciousness. And then the flame sputtered in the current of cold air that rushed in between them.

"Oh no! I think I've broken a plate," she was saying, but lingering arousal rasped in her voice.

He blinked dumbly at the ceramic shards on his kitchen floor.

"Maybe we should just…" she suggested vaguely, taking a step towards the door.

XXX

 _It's the wrong game with the wrong chips_

 _Though your lips are tempting, they're the wrong lips_

 _They're not her lips, but they're such tempting lips…_

XXX

They were sitting on the bed now, how had they gotten there? Anthony couldn't remember. He only knew she'd let him kiss her and keep kissing her. His desire for her, painfully obvious beneath his navy trousers, was frighteningly powerful. What was it about her that made him abandon all decency, that made him behave like such an animal? Certainly the Scotch had something to do with it. With a will he focused on situation rather than sensation.

Edith was leaning over undoing her sandals. He swallowed heavily, almost licked his lips. It was clear where this was heading, more than just exhilarating kisses, quite possibly earth-shattering sex. With a woman, a _young_ woman, that he had met only _hours_ ago.

So? People did this all the time. Just because he believed in a deeper connection before intercourse that didn't mean there was anything wrong with what some of his school chums had called "anonymous sex." After all, wasn't that what you were supposed to do when you'd just had your heart broken? Find solace at the bottom of a bottle and in the arms of a stranger?

She straightened, giving him a nervous smile. Then she moved towards him, her face shy and trusting, and at the same time confident and demanding. That dichotomy, he thought, was what made her so enthralling, the vulnerable uncertain girl and the defiant woman of the world, both in the same irresistible shell. She closed the distance between them, letting her nose caress his, her mouth hovering temptingly only millimeters from his own.

"Well, shall we?" she murmured, less a question than an invitation.

"Edith-I'm drunk," it burst from him with a bluntness that perfectly illustrated that fact.

She sat back, regarding him with a bemused expression.

"I think you are as well. This is probably really not the best time to be making this sort of decision."

"Anthony, do you want to have sex with me?" she said simply.

He nodded his head in the manner of a contrite schoolboy.

"Yes. I do. Though I'm certainly going to hell for it."

"I don't think so." She shook her head. "I want to be with you, and you want to be with me. I don't think there's anything wrong with that."

He looked sideways at her.

"I just hope you won't regret it in the morning."

"Somehow I don't think I will," she smiled wickedly, swiftly levering herself onto his lap, knees on either side of his thighs. If the fall on her knee had hurt her, she didn't seem to mind it now. Her deep brown eyes eyes darkened with desire and challenge. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek, just by the corner of his mouth. The kiss, and the gratified sigh that accompanied it unabashedly articulated the pleasure she took in his body, the pleasure she greedily sought.

"Oh dear lord," he almost whimpered, turning to catch her mouth earnestly with his own, his last bastion of resistance smashed.

He forgot any pretense of decorum then, and gave himself over to sensation and instinct.

Her body gave unspoken commands and he obeyed, rising to meet her gently bucking hips, her thighs warm satin beneath his palms, her lips crushing into his, her hands tugging at his shirt. It took only seconds for her to wrest it from his shoulders, and then her hands were on him, fingers blissfully caressing, exploring. And then there were her lips.

His skin burst into flame once more and he heard a thoroughly graceless groan escape his lips. He brought his hands upwards, and she straightened, allowing him to push her sundress up over her shoulders. With another of those looks that was a mix of timid self-doubt and wanton seductress she reached behind and swiftly removed her bra.

The fire raced to his temples and the room spun. Through the glare of the conflagration he leaned forward, and took one soft breast into his mouth.

"Oohhh" she hummed pure pleasure. Her fingernails made small circles in his scalp. Again he complied, gluttonously coaxing one nipple, then another, into rigid points which scraped deliciously against the hypersensitive skin of his bare chest.

When he lifted his head her eyes met his, heavy-lidded and hazy with arousal.

Somewhat awkwardly he guided her onto her back, removed her underpants and then his own. At the sight of his exposed erection, she started.

"Oh, fuck! A _condom_!" she expelled coarsely.

He froze. He didn't have any condoms. He hadn't had a need for condom in…well at least a decade. Maud had been barren. His mind raced through the alternatives.

"Hmmm, I wonder if…." She twisted to edge of the bed and produced a straw handbag he hadn't noticed before. Had she had that the whole time? She began to rummage through it, then gave a triumphant cry and held up a small blue package.

"Thank god campus health drops these in our mailboxes every few weeks."

He took it, and feeling terribly self-conscious, put it on.

"Don't worry, it suits you," she said from the bed, trying to diffuse the awkwardness of the moment.

He gave a crooked grin. "You're too kind," he said dryly. "Now, let's get back to something more interesting."

He bent over her, trailing a line of achingly slow kisses from neck to navel, delighting in the gasps and shivers his touch engendered. Then he returned to her mouth, deep, slow, tantalizing kisses, which grew to fervent, forceful adoration, eliciting a deep moan from Edith. He moved above her, nudging her knees apart. Even through the condom, he could feel the wet heat pulsing against his tip, signaling her readiness. He took her mouth in a final unspoken appeal for approval which was heartily given.

"Shall we?" he repeated her words, his voice distorted by need.

She gave a wry smile.

He entered her, and they gasped together.

"Christ, that's—" he uttered involuntarily.

Adjusting her hips slightly to gather him deeper into her, she said, "I _know_."

It was as if they'd both tasted an exquisite dish and were corroborating their delight; as if, in spite of the electricity they'd been generating all evening, they were surprised at how _good_ it felt to be together. Age be damned. There was no twenty-something and forty-something. There was only a woman and a man and what lay between them.

He gave a giddy chuckle and moved his hips to plunge into her again. Her body curled towards the point of their coupling, and she exhaled in a blissful "aaaah." Whether it was her husky exaltations or the feel of her, wet and warm and straining for him, that spurred him to repeat the action, gaining rhythm and speed, he neither knew nor cared. He only knew that his world had suddenly shrunk to the miraculous ecstasy of worshipping this woman, this glorious, tenacious, stunning, incomparable woman.

Then thought left him. His senses were flooded, by the harmony of their mingled grunts and guttural vowels; by the rush of frantic breath through his lungs, the urgent fingertips at his shoulder, the instinctive undulation of their hips, Edith meeting him thrust for thrust; by the almost unbearably wonderful pressure which tightened around his entire being, blinding him with blazing sensation, pressing the air from his lungs, a rapturous suffocation that constricted his very blood-and then the pressure released and he pitched forward into unfettered bliss. And his heart burst.

XXX

… _but they're such tempting lips_

 _That if some night you're free_

 _Dear, it's all right_

 _Yes, it's all right with me_

XXX

Anthony smiled. There was a spill of copper blonde hair against his cheek, a slim gently curving spine fitted perfectly into his chest, and a petite bottom cushioned against his groin. His arm was draped across a warm torso which rose and fell in soft, puffing breaths. He curled it possessively, drawing the sleeping form even closer, inhaling the wonderful scent of her. He couldn't resist a kiss or two, nuzzling into the nape of her neck, bowing his mouth to her bare shoulder. He sighed, thinking how lucky he was to have such a woman in his arms, in his bed. He felt comforted, full, whole, _happy_. A lump hardened in his throat and his heart throbbed meaningfully.

She stirred, and he realized he was awake, that the glow he felt was not an inebriated dream. He really _had_ spent a phenomenal evening with this young, vibrant woman.

And now it was morning.

Commanding all his willpower he withdrew his arm and slid quietly out of bed. When he returned from the bathroom she was dressed, sitting re-buckling her sandals in the same spot she had sat to unbuckle them hours before.

"Good morning," he said, as though she were a house guest, as though he hadn't been cradling her naked body just twenty minutes before. What was he supposed to say? It had been ages since he'd awakened with anyone, much less a relative stranger, in his bed. Should he ask her to leave? He didn't want her to leave. An intimate breakfast suggested itself. A part of him wouldn't've minded taking her back to bed for a repeat of the night's activities. But that part was buried under a thick layer of propriety, no longer bolstered by Scotch and the mystery of night. Such things took on a different presentation in daylight.

"Did you sleep well?"

She drew her thumb and forefinger together over her eyes. "I did, yes. But I'm afraid I have a terrible head this morning."

"Ah, I have just the thing for that."

He hurried from the room, digging through dinners for one and tinfoil bundled meat from his brother-in-law's farm to reach a small pile of narrow tubes of brightly colored frozen sugar water. He seized three, fished out his kitchen shears and snipped the tops and headed back to the bedroom.

Edith was sitting forward with her head in her hands, elbows on her knees. She looked up when he entered and gave a peaked smile in welcome.

"A freezie?" she said dubiously, taking the yellow tube he handed her.

"I don't know what it is about these things, but we used to swear by them when I was at university. Two of those and you'll be able to face the day."

"Two?" she bit slowly into the tip of the one she was holding. He proffered a blue one and himself crunched on the tip of the purple tube in his hand.

She ate hers slowly, but afterward she seemed to be feeling better.

As she was munching her second she felt well enough to follow him to the living room.

"I haven't had one of these in years," she said reminiscently as she lowered onto the sofa, sprawling into the lounging position she'd occupied all evening. "My granny always had some when we went to her house in the summer."

"You forget how good they are," he commented, folding his empty tube in half. "When you've finished that—"

The doorbell clanged loudly, interrupting his words. Interrupting whatever it was that he and Edith had begun. He couldn't help thinking of the person on the other side of the door as hostile, an unwelcome intruder.

"Good morning, sir. This may sound a bit out of sorts but—"

"Thomas?"

Anthony turned to find Edith at his elbow.

The young man's black brows raised, his gaze taking in Edith's rumpled dress, sheepish expression, and blue-stained lips. The high cheekbones redden slightly as he suppressed a smirk. The glint in his eyes made it clear what he thought of Anthony and the entire situation.

Under that gaze the sublime coupling of the night before now seemed like something of which to be ashamed, a dirty old man taking advantage of the drunk young woman on his doorstep. He swallowed, trying in vain to push against the tide of embarrassment that flooded through his veins, cold water on hot coals.

"Well, I um, guess I'd better go," Edith mumbled and shuffled around him towards the door.

"Thank you, Anthony. Uh, for the bandage…and…the freezie… It was nice to meet you."

She raised her hand, arm straight and sharp and formal. A handshake? As though last night had never happened. As though they hadn't chatted for three hours and laughed and… As if he hadn't kissed her. As if they hadn't tasted each other. As if she had arrived on his doorstep, gotten a bandaid and a popsicle and was going trot along home like a good little girl.

And perhaps that was all it had meant to her. A drunken blur that she had already forgotten. He was the one who was a lonely, withered, old sap. The one who'd taken a casual tryst and, without even realizing it, had turned it into something special, and to him at least, terribly significant.

He realized he was frowning at her hand, and took it, shaking it with no more than civil pressure under Thomas' critical eye.

Her face was drawn and uncomfortable, unrecognizable to the shining confident smile she'd shown him as she'd mounted him, daring him to act upon his desires. It hadn't seemed shameful then. But he hadn't been sober then either.

"Yes, it was lovely to meet you too." _Lovely_. It was far more than that.

She withdrew her hand, and turned.

"Drive safe," he said lamely as they descended his front steps.

As he closed the door he heard Thomas's voice.

"So, you slept with him?"

"Oh, shut up, Thomas," Edith's voice replied irritably.

And the door clunked shut.

Anthony went to the kitchen. He swept up the broken plate, tossed the empty Scotch bottle in the bin along with the counterfull of spoiled food and three sticky plastic tubes. He went to the bedroom and made the bed, took a shower. Lastly, he tucked the blue first aid box back into its place in the hall closet. All traces of Edith Crawley were gone.

Except that he couldn't settle on anything for the rest of the day and paced his apartment restlessly picking up books, then putting them down, flipping through channels on TV, and finally settling on giving his flat a thorough clean. With one exception. Usually cleaning house meant he'd change out his sheets. But he didn't.

The hours passed, he fixed himself a frozen dinner, and sat eating it while he checked his email, Anne's last message topping the list. Below it, their weeks of correspondence stretched towards the bottom of the screen. He would miss Anne, it was true. But somehow the severing of their relationship didn't seem as catastrophic today as it had yesterday. Not that he was any less alone. And now, he missed Edith.

How was that possible? He was being hopelessly melodramatic. Eighteen hours ago he hadn't even known she existed, and suddenly he was moping over her? This was absurd.

He went to bed early, but if he was hoping to leave Edith behind in sleep, he was sorely mistaken. His dreams recalled in detail smiling brown eyes, whispered sighs, and warm flesh against his own. He dreamed about Edith each night that week, carnal animations intertwined with simple scenes of talking with Edith, laughing with Edith, dining with Edith, simply _being_ with Edith. And no matter how often he told himself to grow up, to stop thinking about her, to get on with his life and file that night away as a pleasant experience not to be repeated, his longing for her persisted.

XXXXX

Anthony stood in front of a slightly battered black door. He strained foolishly and peered at the peephole as if he could see something on the other side of it. He shifted impatiently, his fingers squeaking against the cellophaned tulips in his hand.

Maybe she wasn't in. Maybe he should just go. This was mad. She'd probably be mortified to see him. She was clearly embarrassed about what had happened, why else would she have been upset when Thomas had asked about it? She wasn't a drunk university student on a dare now, she was a practical, _young_ woman, and there was no reason she'd want to spend any more time with a pathetic old codger like him.

But he remembered the way she'd blushed when she'd admitted that she'd wanted to meet him. And the way she had kissed him, _she_ had kissed _him._ And before that—she'd sat on his couch for hours, just talking to him. If she could do that, then maybe…. He reached up and pressed the doorbell a second time.

"Coming!" a female voice hollered on the other side of the door and footsteps clomped on stairs.

The door schicked open, but it wasn't Edith standing there. The young woman who regarded him had straight blonde hair, a comparatively broad nose, and was significantly shorter than Edith. She was wearing jogging shorts and a t-shirt, and as she waited for his explanation her hands skillfully bundled her hair into a serviceable bun.

"Can I help you?"

Anthony felt the temptation to leave strengthen.

"Uh…yes… Does Edith Crawley live here?"

"Ahhh," her eyes narrowed and her lips curled into a knowing smile. "Wait there, I'll fetch her."

She turned on her heel and disappeared up a staircase that opened off of the entryway.

Several eternal minutes passed. Through the open door he could hear muffled voices, and then hasty footsteps pounded on the floor above. It sounded like they were moving away from where he stood, further into the flat. He felt uncertainty twist in his stomach. She was angry, she didn't want to see him.

And then the petite blonde returned, and behind her was Edith. Her legs appeared first, clad in dark jeans, a familiar pair of wedge sandals carefully negotiating the steep stairs. A peach blouse floated around her torso, a gold necklace glimmered on her chest, and matching earrings danced in her ears. Eyeliner rimmed her deep brown eyes and pink gloss painted her lovely lips. He felt his mouth go dry at the sight of her.

"Well, I'm off for a run," the shorter girl said loudly, and Anthony forced his eyes to her face. She seemed plain by compassion, though she wore no makeup.

"Thank you," he mumbled.

She grinned broadly and gave him a wink.

"Okay, Anna, see you later," Edith said pointedly, and her roommate squirmed past them and away.

Edith watched her jog away for a few minutes then turned her attention to him.

Under her gaze, he felt a wide smile spread across his face. She smiled too, and it glittered enchantingly in her eyes.

"Hello," he said, sounding like a lovesick schoolboy. "These are for you."

He handed her the flowers.

"Thank you."

She took them, then waited expectantly.

"I'm sorry for just showing up at your door like this…" he ran a hand absently through his hair. "I just wanted to—to apologize if I offended you with my abominable conduct the other night. I should never have…" he fixed her with a sincere stare. "But I have to tell you that I can't stop thinking about that night and how wonderful it felt to be with you." His voice emerged slightly breathless, his heart in his throat.

"And I know it is mad, but I was wondering if maybe you wanted to….to start over….to do this properly… have dinner with me."

He paused. When she didn't answer right away he continued, hurriedly.

"I don't just mean the sex. Which of course was great but—"

"Yes. I would like that. Thank you."

He stopped, looking warily at her.

"Are you sure?"

She gave a good-natured snort. "Yes. I'm _sure_. Why _shouldn't_ I have dinner with you?"

He shrugged, feeling the convivial atmosphere of that evening settle between them.

"I wasn't sure if you'd…" he trailed off. "I mean, I'm…"

She turned to place the bouquet on the stairs, pulled the door closed and came to hook her arm around his.

"You know, Anthony, if you're having trouble finding something to say I can always grab my _Complete Works_ ," she said lightly.

How wonderful to hear his name spring to her lips in such a familiar tone.

He laughed, placing his hand over hers where it lay against his forearm.

"That will not be necessary, I assure you. Shall we?"

And with that they set off down the street, arm in arm.

XXXXX


	3. C - Centerfold

**A/N: Firstly, I want to say THANK YOU for your enthusiastic response to the last chapter, you are all absolute darlings and I can't tell you how much I appreciate your comments! I'm so pleased that there are readers out there who [still] enjoy reading Andith fluff as much as I do. Apple Charlotte for all you lovely, lovely folks! And more fic…**

 **Ok, so this one doesn't adhere so strictly to the song's premise. Prompts are just jumping-off points for me anyway. However, I'll also admit that this one was also inspired by all the gorgeous spreads of Laura! Enjoy!**

* * *

C – Centerfold

Music and Lyrics by Seth Justman.

As recorded by The J. Geils Band.

XXX

 _My blood runs cold…_

… _My angel is the centerfold._

XXX

"Oh," Edith breathed, walking mesmerized towards a large black and white canvas. "This one is…."

Her companion grunted in agreement with the unspecified tribute.

She stared, feeling the image envelop her. It was a 70 inch photo of an abandoned library, ruined and long forgotten. Piles of rotting books littered the floor; you could almost hear them whispering their ancient stories to the wind. They seemed lonely, and at the same time contented, at peace. A roofless corner of the room had been embraced by a winding branch, and its lacelike shadow splayed across the crumbling covers. What gave the piece its magic was the light; which streamed through a once ornamented window and fired the stillness with an ethereal glow. The photographer had captured the whole thing in a soft focus which made the space feel timeless, sacrosanct. Edith felt something akin to the sensation she felt when watching a silent film; that mix of wistful melancholy and childlike hope that washed over one when Chaplin turned his wide, plaintive eyes to the camera, shouldered his bundle and shuffled off down an empty road…

She heard footsteps approaching behind her, implying that she ought to move on.

Before turning away, she leaned in to read the label.

 _A. Strallan._

XXX

Tom looked up from his computer as Anthony blew into his office.

"I can't do the shoot," he declared, his voice gruff with gravity.

"What?!" Tom squawked. "You've been begging me for weeks to book you a shoot with Edith Crawley and now that I've finally—"

"I know. But not like _this_."

Tom's frown melted into an amused smirk.

"I thought you wanted to _photograph_ her. That she inspired you; sparked some artistic vision. I didn't realize you had a crush on her."

"I don't! That's not— It's just that—"

He'd seen Edith Crawley modeling makeup, tight shots of her fathomless brown eyes or pink-rouged cheeks; in quirky ads for a variety of products that had her playing off of bizarre props or wearing outlandish costumes; and in several fashion shoots, which placed her sometimes in hemlines that stopped perilously close to her pants-line or necklines that plunged almost to her navel; but he'd never seen her completely, utterly, _nude_.

It was a sadly typical setup for the industry. So often to sell a high-end perfume, the marketing department chose to sell a _woman_. He'd done such shots before. But this time it was _this_ woman. A face in a magazine that had so captivated him that he'd begun to collect her work, each new spread strengthening his certainty that he _must_ shoot her. He longed to turn his artistic lens to her striking features; penetrating brown eyes, a long elegant nose which dipped towards a discerning mouth and an upturned chin, and was flanked by charmingly rounded cheekbones pressed with dimples. Her figure was just as photographically enticing, lean and supple and painted in tones of buttermilk and peach roses. Today, every inch of that fair skin would be on display. She'd be posing nude with an oversized bottle of the product, and the crepe that was to cover her most intimate parts would be photo-shopped in later.

And he didn't like it. He couldn't say just why, but it certainly was _not,_ as Tom implied, because he had a crush on her, thankyouverymuch.

The young Irish agent raised his palms in a helpless gesture. "I can't do anything about it now. Contract's signed, talent is ready. So you'll just have to get over your scruples, loverboy," he jeered gleefully.

Anthony glowered at him and stalked from the room.

XXX

When he reached the set, Anthony's eyes found her immediately. She was sitting in a high set canvas chair, having the last of her makeup applied. Her smooth sculpted legs bent from the hem of a fluffy blue robe, inevitably drawing the eye and the imagination upwards towards the bare torso beneath the terry wrapper. Anthony felt a muscle at the back of his jaw twitch. He tried to tell himself this was just a job, she was just a subject like any other, but sensibility shouted him down. For whatever reason, she was special.

The makeup artist stepped back, signaling that the shoot was about to begin. As was customary, the crew each gave a brief introduction, while Edith nodded and beamed graciously. The photographer was last, a tall, friendly-looking gentleman who stepped forward and extended a long-fingered hand.

"Anthony Strallan," he offered, and bowed his head slightly. The smooth growl of his voice and the sympathetic, slightly crooked smile that accompanied it blossomed warm in Edith's cheeks.

"Hang on, Anthony Strallan? Do you have a piece on at the Carson?"

His brows knit together. "I do, yes."

"Ohhhh! I have to tell you that I _absolutely_ love it! It was so…" she moved her hands in a helpless gesture and gave a bashful smile, "It was…thrilling and enchanting and…heartbreaking and…somehow comforting, all at the same time..."

"I was lucky to have discovered that old place," he explained, excitement puffing air into his voice, "I was hiking in Hungary, and I just happened upon this beautiful treasure, and I thought, I _have_ to get this. It was a truly magical spot…almost holy—"

"Yes exactly! As if ju—"

The production manager, a staunch young woman with petulant features and an oversized watch put an appealing hand on Edith's robed shoulder.

"Ah, yes," Anthony acknowledged, feeling his enthused grin drop into a more casual smile. "We'd better get started."

The work lights switched off with a _chunk_ , and the stage gleamed under bright photo lights. Anthony pretended to be fiddling with the camera, making adjustments, pondering angles, but all the while he was keenly aware that at any moment Edith's robe was coming off. As the seconds passed, the elation of sharing his work with someone of vision was swallowed in a rumbling discontent.

He wasn't sure quite why the idea of Edith's nudity bothered him. Was it simply that he felt guilty that he was attracted to her and would certainly be affected by her naked body as much as he was by her clothed one? No, it wasn't that. He admired her features in an artistic sense; it had nothing to do with sex. But _she_ wouldn't know that. An older man, even a photographer, how could she not think him a letch? He'd imagined their shoot, looked forward to its eventuality, as a meeting of equals, fellow artists. How could she see him as an equal when she would think he was leering at her the whole time?

He mentally shook himself. She didn't think a _thing_ about him, good _or_ bad. As Tom had said; he was the contract photog, she was the talent, end of story. What made her any different than any other gig? And why, for that matter, after numerous shoots with women being sliced into their component parts by his camera for the sake of fashion, was he feeling as though he were about to serve Edith up on a platter? A piece of meat to be ogled by every person who picked up a magazine. As if that wasn't what modeling was all about. As if she didn't accept that as part of her job. But still, his resentment growled.

The robe came off, and he had to fight the urge to move to embrace her, shielding her nakedness from the eyes of those gathered. Ironic, he thought, because it was his "eye," his camera, that would expose her to the world. He couldn't help examining her, and noticing how magnificent she was. Strong, lean, and opalescent, humming with vitality. The light played in the shadows of her bones, under her breasts, between her legs, showcasing her tall, graceful form. She was exquisite. A masterpiece. And he was privileged to have the opportunity to render her in light and shadow; to attempt to capture the integrity, vulnerability, power, and grace of this singularly beautiful woman.

XXX

Edith took a deep breath. And then another. With a will she kept her hands from rising to cover her breasts, or cupping around her barely covered groin. She felt absurd and clumsy and completely invaded—not at all the sensual sophisticate she was supposed to be portraying. There was a misconception that models were completely comfortable in their own skin, that they thought themselves infinitely beautiful and never doubted their appeal. She supposed she was a bad model, because she still hadn't achieved that level of confidence.

Perhaps it was because she hadn't intended to _be_ a model. She'd studied performance in school. But her friends in the photography department had asked her to be a subject for their projects and it had led to paying work, so her career path had changed. She looked upon setups as a role, so that it wasn't truly _her_ that the camera caught. Whatever character she was playing, the spunky boho-queen selling female napkins or the imperious vamp selling a cocktail dress, was _beautiful_. She was simply _Edith_. But it was hard to be someone else when you had no mask; nothing but a little makeup and some carefully positioned plastic between you and the camera; not even a pair of shoes.

 _Ka-chick._

The first shot sounded in her ears. A flurry of others followed, as A. Strallan familiarized himself with his canvas; her body. The rhythm of the shutter was familiar; it usually helped her focus, zone into her character for the shoot. But this time the glaring reality of her nakedness distracted her to all else. It was as though the more she tried to relax her muscles, the more tightly they knotted. _Well then_ , she thought hopefully, if she couldn't relax they couldn't do the shoot and she could put on her robe and go home… Except that this was her highest profile gig to date, it would be good for her career; Thomas had said it might also help her if she wanted to try for the stage again. On the other hand, to break her contract would be disastrous…

She became aware that the clicking had ceased. The large black camera fell and two bright sympathetic eyes appeared. He walked over to her, speaking in that kind, hushed whisper-growl.

"Miss Crawley—Edith-are you alright?"

"Uh, yes, I…. it's just that…" She shifted uncomfortably. "I've never done a nude shoot before." She'd said it like it was something of which to be ashamed, like confessing that she still slept with a teddy bear.

"It _is_ rather gruesome isn't it?" he gave her a lopsided, confidential grin, which danced mischievously, and charmingly, in his eyes.

She laughed, feeling her muscles unclench. " _You've_ done nude modeling?"

He affected a showy pose. "Of course, can't you tell by my manly physique? I'll have you know I'm in talks with H&M."

She laughed again. He chuckled. It was a pleasant, comforting sound. She relaxed some more.

"I had a thing for my Art 101 professor. Said yes to modeling for her class before I knew what I was into. Imagine having a whole classroom staring you down."

"Well, I'm glad it's _you_ this time," she said warmly. "Plus, I know I don't have to worry about looking ridiculous. I know from your piece at the Carson that you can find beauty in anything."

"Especially," he said simply, "where beauty already exists."

A shadow of uncertainty fell across her eyes and then vanished, like a quick moving cloud on a sunny day.

He opened his mouth to reassure her, heartfelt admiration ready to spill forth, when a whining Yorkshire accent barked, "Mr. Strallan, are we ready to work?"

"I guess we'd better get back at it," she said.

"Indeed we should," he agreed earnestly, though she could sense the joke in his tone, "If we don't get a move on they'll run out of your hours and have to use _my_ picture instead." He pulled his face into an exaggerated grimace of horror and swept over to his camera, leaving her chuckling in his wake.

The shoot resumed, and she didn't feel anxious anymore. He continued joking with her (mostly by way of mocking himself), and at one point made a quip about the perfume that left them both in stitches for several minutes. Much to the consternation of the hawkish production manager, the next two quarters of an hour were riddled with aftershocks of giggles whenever Edith's eye would catch Anthony's—the languid pose and careful focus shattered by a ripple of mirth.

They were finally able to pull themselves together, and they worked through a few poses, Edith making suggestions and Anthony gentle requests, never demands, as though _she_ were really the one in charge. If it weren't for an occasional meaningful "oy," from the production manager, they might have been the only two in the room. Edith found Anthony's creative enthusiasm infectious, and was no longer shy, but keen to try new things, eager to produce the best result.

With the last half hour or so of the session, they threw the "script" out the window, abandoning urbane arousal for a series of shots with a more romantic flair. In one, Edith took a sniff from the bottle, and formed her face into a smile that recalled rose petals and candlelight, stolen kisses and tender passion. Her deep brown eyes gazed adoringly at the camera and straight into his heart, which thudded insistently, crushing the breath from his lungs and arresting all thought.

"Anthony?" her sweet voice echoed in his oxygen-starved brain. "Are you all right?"

He blinked, and reality returned, breath swirling into his lungs.

"Oh, er, yes, sorry. Can we try that one again? And this time, if you could angle your head ever so slightly…"

XXX

Edith caught up the plain while envelope, fingers slicing an opening into one edge. She pulled out two 8 x 10 prints. One was the abandoned library; Anthony's gallery print that had so enchanted her. The other was a shot of her. He'd cropped it at her shoulders, and it felt as though she was naked not to be devoured by the viewer, but rather as if she needed no adornment. It was one of the unscripted moments at the shoot, he'd made some droll remark, and with his clever lens he'd caught the next moment, mirth bubbling up into her eyes, hair tumbling forward over one brow, lips curved in blossoming merriment. She looked radiant, confident, and he'd made her harsh features look soft and feminine, even desirable. Accompanying the prints was his business card, with a short message scrawled along the back:

 _My favorite from the shoot. Thank you for a delightful afternoon._

 _A.S._

She turned the card over, mentally reciting the eleven digits beneath his name. She read them three times, then pulled out her mobile and dialed.

"Tom Branson, media representation." Recited a brogued voice at the other end of the line.

"I'm looking for Anthony Strallan."

"I represent Mr. Strallan, what can I do for you?"

"I only wanted to—to thank him for…er…if you can tell him that Edith Crawley said thank you, the photos are lovely."

"Edith Crawley?" There was a pause. "Would you like me to set up an appointment for you?"

"Oh, um… sure." She made a snap decision. "Yes, actually, thank you. I'd like to do some headshots with him."

"Excellent! I'll take a look at his bookings…."

Five minutes later Edith had an appointment with Anthony at his home studio on Friday at 3:00. She told herself the appointment had nothing to do with wanting to see him again. She'd booked a second session with him because of the way he'd made her _look_ , not the way he'd made her _feel_. They'd worked well together, he was a skilled photographer, and well, she _was_ planning to try for acting jobs again soon wasn't she? And she'd need updated headshots, wouldn't she? Right then, Friday it was.

But Friday suddenly seemed unreasonably far away.

XXX

"I want to thank you, by the way, for helping me get through my first nude shoot."

Edith said, leaning down and placing a steaming cup of tea at Anthony's elbow. With his careful instruction she'd navigated the kitchen and made them some tea, Anthony engrossed in editing her headshots.

"Thank you," he said absently, his face in a concentrated scowl, his fingers clicking away at his mouse as his keen eyes darted from pixelated point to pixelated point.

Edith studied his profile as he worked. At the perfume shoot she'd thought his features friendly, pleasant. And they were still that, but now she saw the subtleties, enticing contradictions just like those in his work; gentle and powerful, refined and unassuming, cheerful and pensive, kind…and terribly attractive. Like his work, he'd quietly and imperceptibly seduced her, and yet he was as unreachable as that desolated library, lost in the Hungarian hills.

He leaned back, turning to face her with a smile. "You're welcome." He said, as if there had been no interval between her statement of gratitude. "I'll tell you a secret: I don't enjoy working with reluctant subjects. If you're uncomfortable, I'm uncomfortable. We have to be able to work _together_."

She beamed stupidly, her stomach fluttering absurdly at the emphasis he placed on the word _together_.

"But, might I ask; if you were so uneasy, why did you take the job?"

She shrugged.

"Why does any model take a job? For the money, the work. And my agent said that it would be a good move for me. A sign that I'm a mature artist with the experience to handle it."

"You'll forgive me for saying so, but I don't know that there is anything particularly _mature_ or immature about posing nude. And I'm just old fashioned enough to believe that you've got what it takes to make it in this business without…uh…"

"Showin' my tits?" she finished for him, in a crass South London accent.

His grin trembled. "Yeah…something like that."

She laughed.

"At any rate, you've got some lovely shots here."

She drew closer, leaning over his shoulder to peer at the many shots of her face smiling back at her from the computer screen. It took considerable willpower not to touch him as she did so.

It was a mark of Anthony's many years in the business that he was able to discuss the merits of a photo while simultaneously reveling in the nearness of his glorious muse, so close he could feel the warmth of her against his shoulder. His heart swelled with remembered tenderness, that look at the shoot that had left him reeling. _You are just the contract photog_ , he chastised. _Forget anything else_.

"Anthony, you're truly an artist," she said several minutes later, after he had shown her some of his favorite shots.

"Why, thank you," he said flippantly.

"No, I _mean_ it. You've really given me something. I've never…seen myself…like this before."

She grew quiet as a lump seized in her throat. "I…like the way you see me," she said softly.

He swiveled in his chair, fixing her with a clear, intense gaze.

"Edith…" he breathed, his voice calm and thrillingly deep, "it's not my camera that makes you beautiful."

He reached a tentative hand, extending one long finger and lightly tracing the line of her jaw.

"You _are_ beautiful."

She broke into a smile, though tears glittered in her eyes. She gave a shaky laugh and shook her head.

"Would you like to get some dinner?" she asked, in a "what the hell" kind of tone.

"Hmmm…dinner with the loveliest woman in London," he pretended to consider. "That sounds…" he grew serious, "heavenly."

"Heavenly?" she teased, as they moved towards the door, "I don't think nude photography is very angelic."

He chuckled. "Fair enough."

"Besides," she remarked, a blush coloring her saucy grin, "angels aren't allowed any _fun_."

He raised his eyebrows and she laughed.

"Come on, I'm hungry."

… _my angel is the centerfold…_

XXXXX

* * *

 **A/N: I wasn't sure how to end this, so, yeah. I don't know about you, but just the mention of this song is enough to get it stuck in my head for days, so, sorry about that…. :D (Cue the chorus of "Na-Na's"…)**

 **Also, you might be interested to know that the scaffold is built for a continuation/companion to It's All Right With Me; I can't say when or if it will be completed, but here's hoping.**


	4. Y - You and I (PART I)

**A/N: HAPPY ANDITH FEST 2016! To prove I can write in canon, here's yet _another_ reconciliation—the one we were all cheated out of by a certain panel of writers… This song has screamed Andith at me since the first time I heard it, so I just had to do a fic for it. (Broken into two parts because it got so long, part two coming tomorrow…)**

 **Dedicated to all who hold steadfast to this lovely ship. You are all wonderful and talented and I'm so honored to be among your number.**

* * *

Y – You and I & You and I (Reprise)

Music by: Benny Andersson and Björn Ulvaeus

Lyrics by: Tim Rice

From the musical _Chess_ as sung by Idina Menzel and Josh Groban (among others).

PART I

XXX

 _This is an all too familiar scene._

 _Life imperceptibly coming between_

 _Those whose love is as strong_

 _As it could or should be…_

XXX

Anthony squared his wide shoulders, broadened by the correct cut of his morning coat, and thrust himself forward with swift long-legged strides. He felt as though he were pushing against a tide, a current made up of the scandalized embarrassment and affronted disdain of the congregation gaping at him as he hurried past; and the powerful undertow of the rejection and confusion he knew was tearing through Edith at this very moment. His shoulders tightened and he set his jaw, pushing hard towards the end of the aisle, the oppressive waves spilling over his shoulders like water over a ship's prow—until suddenly he was squinting in sunlight.

He inhaled the fresh country air, and exhaled in a silent sob, as self-loathing and bitter remorse sliced through him like so many deadly arrows. Hot tears slid down his cheeks as he pressed past his waiting chauffeur, and turned down a side-street, hurrying for privacy, for a corner, a sanctuary, better still an oubliette-a hole where he could collapse into the misery that grew keener with every step away from Edith.

Because with every step, the truth clawed at his heart and threatened to tear a hole in his chest. The truth that Edith meant so much more to him than he had ever allowed himself to admit. It wasn't just that she made him laugh, or listened to him with sincere interest. It wasn't that making her happy blotted out the darkness that he had carried home from the front. It wasn't simply that he was fond of her and that she had invited him into a life of comfortable companionship, mutual care and _family_ , in which he could share in the joys and woes of Crawleys young and old. It wasn't just the natural physical attraction—even infatuation-that _any_ man might feel for a young vibrant woman like Edith.

He'd proposed to Edith all those years ago because he'd found her pleasant company, and because he thought they'd "do well together," as the saying went. He'd allowed _himself_ to be proposed to, allowed this tragic farce in which he played the clown to take him all the way to the altar—not for any of these reasons, but for the simple undeniable truth that he _loved_ Edith. Loved her deeply and utterly—and he'd pushed her away forever.

He continued on, as if chased. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and Edith as possible, knowing his resolve could so easily break and he'd go running back to her and beg her forgiveness. It had been easier there in the church, with everyone watching, been easy to see things as they were, rather than through the rose-colored glasses of Edith's determined optimism. There, he had felt a fool, the lecherous vecchio marrying the young Isabella. But if he allowed himself to hesitate, allowed Edith to get him on his own, then he'd fall under her spell again, and when the illusion eventually faded Edith would face years of bitter regret.

There was a grove of trees on one end of the town, too small to be called a forest, but Anthony plunged into their cover, steadied himself on a cedar trunk, and heaved with silent despair.

XXX

 _How can I love you so much,_

 _Yet make no move?_

 _There will be days and nights_

 _When I'll want you_

 _More than I'll want to._

 _More than I should._

 _Oh, how I want you._

XXX

It was curious, Edith thought, how abruptly vulnerable one became at bedtime. Anxiety—like the knot that had been forming in Edith's stomach since morning—could be ignored, denied, and suppressed during the daylight hours, as if sunlight were a talisman against the shadows of one's mind. She'd kept herself busy that afternoon, shopped, chatted with Aunt Rosamund. After dinner the quiet solitude of her bedroom had begun to corrode her defenses, but there had been changing into her nightgown, brushing her teeth, smoothing on lotion. But as soon as her head hit the pillow, the knot gave an angry throb and the tears began. As if a spring had been released by the redistribution of gravity, hot tears welled from the corners of Edith's eyes and slid down her cheeks, some wetting her ears before they stained her pillow. Strangled sobs escaped her throat, the knot now constricting painfully around her heart.

She couldn't do this. Why did she ever think she could do this? Why did she ever say yes?

She'd met with Michael Gregson that morning, discussing edits to her first article for _The Sketch_. If she were honest, the edits weren't particularly significant, but the small criticisms had blasted a hole in her already fragile confidence. Michael had been terribly nice about it, even teased and flirted with her as he'd picked apart her opening structure and the scholastic tone of some of her observations.

Another sob choked from her and the tears flooded down her cheeks. She closed her eyes against the image of _Anthony._

 _Oh, Anthony_.

Longing surged through her with agonizing intensity. That was what had really upset her, she realized. Not the criticism of her work, but Michael's evident attraction to her. To be flattered, listened to, admired, by a man—it felt good, but it also felt— _wrong_ , bitter, hollow. She didn't want the admiration of just any man. She wanted— _wanted_ so much she thought her heart might combust with the pain of it-the man who had first admired her, valued her, _loved_ her.

 _And I loved him_.

Her face contorted and the silent sobs erupted from her once more.

 _Oh Anthony, Anthony._

XXX

 _You and I,_

 _We've seen it all,_

 _Chasing our hearts' desire,_

 _But we go on pretending_

 _Stories like ours_

 _Have happy endings._

XXX

Edith opened her eyes, instinctively sensing the slowing of the train as it pulled into Downton Station. She'd just returned from two days in London, an invigoratingly productive series of meetings and workshops for the next edition of _The Sketch_. Last night, she and Laura had even gone to musical revue at the Palladium. She sighed happily. Life was good. She had an occupation that fulfilled her, something she was good at, a female friend (which, discounting her sisters, was a blessing she hadn't enjoyed since she was thirteen), and of course, Marigold, who was no longer a secret to anyone in her family, and who would be there, in the nursery when she arrived, ready to jump up into her arms and give her a curly-headed kiss.

Edith felt the grin on her face falter. What had made her think of Anthony?

But the more she tried to shake him from her mind, the more insistently he clung. Memories of Anthony nagged her all afternoon until she finally acknowledged that there _was_ one thing missing in her life to complete her contentment. She wanted to see him again.

Just see him,that was all. He was a friend, a part of her old life that had never gotten a resolution. She just needed to set things to rights as far as Anthony was concerned.

And the feelings that began to stir in her chest would do better to go back to sleep. She would not be so foolish as to let herself be hurt again. She just wanted to see him.

That was all.

XXX

"Lady Edith!" his cornflower eyes were wide with astonishment, apology, and unabashed pleasure.

"Hello, Sir Anthony," Edith said politely, though the formality came to her lips like a foreign language. She returned his warm smile. "It's _so good_ to see you."

"I couldn't agree more. Will you have some tea?"

So they sat, and drank tea, and they filled one another in on what had happened in their lives in the five years since they had parted as almost husband and wife. Anthony had traveled some more, working for the foreign office, and had spent the last year overseeing much-needed improvements to Loxley. Their conversation was polite, interested, but not quite the open easy report that had once existed between them. Edith felt as though they were standing on either side of dam, unable to remove the barrier between them or be drowned in a tide of emotion.

"Did you never marry?" Anthony asked, another casual question in the catching-up chatter.

Edith hesitated before answering, the embers of twice smothered hopes flaring slightly. "No," she murmured. "And you? You've never married?"

He gave a self-deprecating smile and nodded. "Almost."

In response to her furrowed brow he said,

"You remember my sister, Elizabeth? She had an old friend. A war widow."

Edith was surprised to find herself registering a faint pang of indignation. If he hadn't married _her_ , how could he marry someone else?

He fell silent. He sipped his tea. His mouth twitched agitatedly. "You see—I'd known Caroline since before she was married, she was quite a dear friend of Elizabeth's, and she had three sons." His face was pinched into a perfectly pitiable grimace.

Edith nodded. She knew him well enough to know that the boys, the children he had never had, were an important part of the bargain.

"It was to be a marriage of convenience," he continued softly, "she knew that I was not…in love with her."

His eyes locked with hers and one corner of his lips hitched upwards in a small, profoundly sad smile.

Edith held his gaze for a few seconds, then dropped her eyes to her teacup.

"But you didn't marry," she prompted gruffly, swallowing the lump that had risen to her throat.

He shook his head. "She died. Cholera."

Edith immediately thought of Marigold and her heart lurched. _Those poor boys_ … Some of this must have shown on her face, because Anthony murmured,

"I'm sorry, Edith. I was just…trying to be happy. I'm sorry if I have hurt you."

A sudden and unexpected anger welled up inside her. _He_ was trying to be happy? What about her? She'd tried desperately, all of her adult life it seemed, to find happiness. True, she had finally found it, but look what she'd had to endure to get here. And _he_ had been the one to _throw away_ their happiness.

"And what about me? Don't you think _I've_ been trying to find that? I feel like my heart has been broken so many times that I can't remember how all the pieces fit together."

She met his anguished gaze, and for several seconds there was a breathless interplay between them.

Then Edith sighed and her anger diffused into sorrowful regret. Tears gathered behind her eyes.

"Edith," he said thickly, "I'm sorry. I meant for you to be happy."

"I know," she said, and then his eyes were blotted out by her streaming tears.

XXX

 _Each day we get through means one less mistake_

 _Left for the making…_

XXX

Despite the pain of their first meeting, Edith had continued to call upon Anthony once a week. At length, their previous cordiality returned, so that they could talk openly, so long as they avoided the most painful subjects. It was as if they'd made a tacit agreement to accept what was past and start afresh. Which was not entirely possible, as memories followed them both everywhere they went at Loxley. For his part, Anthony lived for the day of Edith's visit, long lazy afternoons filled with rambling strolls, or endless conversations, or drives… To be with her again, to have the supreme pleasure of making her smile or laugh, or blush when he complimented her, to share her agile mind. It was pleasure and it was torture, maddening to be so near her without being allowed even the chaste affections they had enjoyed when engaged. And after all these years, Anthony wanted to have done with propriety. There were several moments when he would have loved nothing more than to seize her and kiss her, to gather her to him and never let go…

One afternoon, Anthony's hopeless heart jumped quickly to hope _ful_. Edith had been climbing into her car in the drive, but had hesitated, and turned back to him, a meaningful look on her face.

"Anthony, would you mind...that is…I should like you to meet Marigold. If you would like that."

Her uncertain face reminded him palpably of a much younger version of herself, chasing his hesitant affection one evening after a dinner. But to meet Marigold, Edith's ward, who she obviously cared very deeply for, to bestow the honor upon him…this must mean that she felt _something_ …

Striving to keep his heart out of his throat he said. "I would like that very much."

XXX

 _And there's no return,_

 _As we slowly learn,_

 _Of the chances we're taking._

XXX

 _To be continued..._


	5. Y - You and I (PART II)

**A/N: You're all absolute darlings-thank you for all the lovely reviews of Part I. Now, the thrilling conclusion!**

* * *

Y – You and I & You and I (Reprise)

Music by: Benny Andersson and Björn Ulvaeus

Lyrics by: Tim Rice

From the musical _Chess_ as sung by Idina Menzel and Josh Groban (among others).

PART II

Anthony completed another circuit around the perimeter of Loxley's open lawn, stopping and stretching, trying to take calming breaths. The activity was an outlet for his nerves, a hoard of butterflies that, not content to remain confined in his stomach, flitted to his fingers and toes so that he couldn't seem to stand still.

For today was the day that Edith and Marigold came for tea.

He desperately wanted Marigold to have a good time, and the more he thought about it, the more his anxiety nagged him. It pointed out, repeatedly, that he hadn't spent more than a few moments in the presence of a child under the age of ten in as many years and that he hadn't exactly been the paternal type before that. But the prospect of Marigold being bored or uncomfortable currently seemed the worst fate imaginable. He knew this was important to Edith, and wanted it to be everything she was hoping for. Whatever that might be.

At last it was three o-clock. Anthony paced more in the entryway until he heard the sound of a car in the drive. Then he fairly leapt down the front steps to meet them.

Edith climbed out first, and then turned to hand down a small curly-haired girl in a butter-yellow gown. The child peeked up at him with large brown eyes that shone with curiosity and uncertainty in equal measure. Looking down into those eyes he felt a reassuring grin rise involuntarily to his lips. As he watched, a hesitant smile blossomed on the petite mouth in response. Anthony beamed more brightly. His chest was filled with a buoyant warmth, and he was certain he might walk the length of the roof if that would make Marigold happy. _So this was what it was like to have a child about_ -one wanted to spoil them at first sight.

They went into the library, where Anthony had piled a table with picture-books and a few well-loved toys and stuffed animals. Edith came forward and fingered a stuffed bunny just bigger than her palm.

"This is terribly thoughtful of you," she said softly, her voice full.

Then her eyes met his, in a moment of such tenderness that Anthony felt the floor list beneath his feet before it righted.

"Mummy Edith, look!" Marigold hailed her, and with a merry grin Edith bent down to exclaim over a toy knight in scratched red armor riding a dingy white charger.

Anthony watched them a moment, debating with himself. And then, somewhat gracelessly, he folded his long legs beneath him to join them on the floor. Before long the three of them were enacting a dashing adventure featuring Sir Klopp and his bunny companion and an attacking tickle-spider (played by Mummy Edith's hand of course), and Marigold was hailing the master of Loxley as "Seranony," bidding him to "watz me" (watch me)" or "hep" (help).

Anthony stretched and gave a small, but not unhappy, groan.

"How about some tea?" he asked, leaning on the mantelpiece to steady himself as he got to his feet.

"Why don't we have our tea outside? It's a beautiful day," Edith suggested, her voice musical with serene pleasure.

"What do you say to that, Miss Marigold?" Anthony addressed the girl, who nodded eagerly, making her curls dance.

From their seat in the back lawn, the discussion turned to the cherry orchard, and there was nothing to do but go see it. And once there, they simply _had_ to pick some for Marigold and Edith to take home. Anthony felt a pang that he couldn't lift Marigold up into the branches, but as it happened she had half of her fun climbing up and down the ladder, and collecting fallen cherries in her skirts. A great deal of them ended up popping into her mouth, and soon she was sticky-cheeked and in a rather giddy mood. Anthony mastered the trick of making her laugh by placing cherries on the crown of his head and pulling faces as they fell across his nose and into his hand, a feat which he repeatedly performed to peals of Marigold's gleeful giggles. Anthony fairly soared at the sound. There was something so purely joyful about a child's giggle—a sound he'd thought he might never hear at Loxley…

His face hurt from grinning, but he couldn't help it. Edith was here, Edith was happy, and unexpectedly, he was having the time of his life with Marigold. He hoped Edith would continue to let him see her. It was clear that she had come to love her little ward, latched on to her as balm for all the heartaches of her past.

Anthony felt Edith's palm on his back, pressing just between his shoulder blades. The intimacy of the touch made him lose focus, and this time the cherry tumbled past his ear and thwacked dully on the ground. While Marigold scrambled to pick it up, he turned to meet Edith's glowing gaze.

"Thank you," she murmured.

Anthony found his heart too full to respond, but he hoped his eyes said everything he couldn't articulate.

"We'd better get these cherries inside," she said at last, turning to Marigold who was playing a kind of golf with fallen cherries and part of a branch. "Come along, darling," she said, extending a hand.

"No, not all done cherries yet," Marigold protested, with a pout.

Edith's eyebrows rose disapprovingly, but her wrath was undercut by Anthony's chipper suggestion,

"I'll tell you what, if Mummy Edith doesn't object, we'll let her take her basket inside and then we'll come along in a few minutes."

"Alright," Edith conceded. " _Five_ minutes. We need to be home for dinner."

Anthony smiled amusedly. He liked "Mummy" Edith. It suited her.

Her affectionate glare passed over Anthony as she turned to go, and he had the impulse to catch her arm and pull her close enough to plant a kiss on her cheek. Instead, he watched her go, blue coat fluttering around her as she grew smaller and smaller.

"Come on Seranony, we get more cherries," Marigold said in a businesslike tone and began to climb the nearest ladder.

It had been more than _ten_ minutes when Anthony finally convinced Marigold to return to the house, plodding dutifully beside him, releasing a few wide yawns. They walked for several moments in silence, then Marigold observed abruptly:

"You have TWO arms."

Anthony started.

"One, two," the girl counted, sounding pleased with herself. "Good arm, sick arm," she pointed them out.

Anthony said nothing. He felt rather like he had just caught a brick with his stomach. Fortunately, Marigold's learned dialogue continued, requiring no input from him.

"Mummy Edith said you hero in-a war. Are you hero, Seranony?"

Anthony opened his mouth. What could he say? He'd done his duty during the war. He'd seen some combat, looked out for his men. He had killed Germans. The intelligence he had gathered had probably slaughtered more men than it had saved. He closed his mouth.

"Mummy Edith said you hero an' you let go things to hep people. Mummy Edith said you sad to let go things, but you give 'em 'way." She scrunched up her nose. "Sac-if-iez." She pronounced authoritatively.

 _Sacrifice._ Anthony swallowed against the lump in his throat. His wounded shoulder tingled with the ghost of an old pain and his chest felt uncomfortably tight. This was what Edith had told Marigold about him?

"You 'kay Seranony?"

Anthony produced a smile.

Then, with forced lightness he said, "You love your Mummy Edith very much don't you?"

"Yes." The plump face was suffused with pure affection. "I love Mummy Edith." Then in a mumbled repetition, as if she were playing with the sounds of the words, "I love Mummy. Mummymummy."

The tightness in Anthony's chest pressed harder and he felt his head spin in response. He blinked down at the thoughtful face of a little girl who had the same determined nose and reddish blonde hair as her mother.

XXX

 _I'd give the world to stay just as we are,_

 _It's better by far,_

 _Not to be to wise,_

 _Not to realize_

 _Where there's truth there will be lies._

XXX

He couldn't believe it. He couldn't _believe_ it.

His mind restated the facts again, as if to convince himself. Convince himself of the awful truth that Edith had had an affair. With a married man. And had borne his… _child_. Somehow Anthony couldn't bring himself to brand Marigold a bastard. The word was too ugly for such a sweet innocent being.

He felt as though he had just drunk vinegar and it was curdling his stomach. He told himself he ought not to let this disturb him, that he was overreacting, that it was Edith's life and that _he_ had left her to such a decision.

But it _did_ disturb him.

It bothered him because Edith had lied to him about it. It bothered him because Edith's reputation hung by a precarious thread. It bothered him because—well because it was wrong damn it! You just weren't supposed to! No matter how much you wanted to. It was instinctive, ingrained by his upringing—the do's and don't's of society. And no matter how he tried, he couldn't stay his feelings of distaste.

Of course, if she hadn't gotten pregnant it wouldn't have been so bad.

He made a growling noise in his throat. How could he think such a thing?! Why couldn't he just accept this? Edith was still Edith. And this sort of thing had been happening since the beginning of time. Hell, how many Strallans had fathered children, as they said, "on the wrong side of the blanket?" How many of his old friends had had extra-marital affairs? But somehow Edith was supposed to be different, better.

He growled again and tunneled his hands into his hair. If only he had married her. Then she wouldn't have run into the arms of her editor. She wouldn't have let herself be hurt, be compromised…

Anthony imagined Edith in another man's bed, a young, handsome man who leered at her like a cinema villain. And yet in his mind's eye Edith was perfectly happy to be there, naked beneath him…

This time he practically roared.

 _Damn_ the man! Damn her! Damn it all!

And damn _him_ for being such a damned bloody fool! Again and again and again.

XXX

"Sir Anthony Strallan," Carson muttered, with just the slightest undertone of disapproval, before Anthony emerged from behind the carved wooden door to meet five astonished, but determinedly civil faces.

Lady Mary's wasn't so much civil as supercilious, Mr. Branson's mouth was set in a guarded pout, Robert's brow was furrowing ever deeper by the moment, and Cora's eyes, large and expressive as all her daughters, clearly showed concern behind their gleam of genteel hospitality. And Edith…Edith was staring at him with large, wary, damnably beautiful eyes.

"Good afternoon," Anthony said with almost painful correctness. "You'll forgive me, I need to speak with Edith…if I may." This last was said with slight hesitation, making it clear that the request was merely good manners added to what was an obvious demand.

There was a shimmer of unspoken opinions, but the room was silent, as if everyone were holding their breath to see what might happen next. Robert and Cora exchanged glances, and Mr. Branson threw a warning look at his eldest sister in law.

Edith examined Anthony, reading with dread the taut lines of his face, the steel that had settled in his bright blue eyes. She'd seen Anthony irritated, exasperated, annoyed; she'd never seen him _angry_ before.

Well, that was untrue. He'd been angry the other afternoon when he'd returned to the house with Marigold. Though he'd excused himself as "unwell" and hurried them out the door with swift civility. That had been two days ago, and she hadn't heard a word. Clearly he'd been brooding over whatever it was and she was now to receive a scold. Well, she'd be damned to that. She hadn't done _anything_ wrong. She'd recently ended the childhood practice of assuming the blame and punishment for Mary's bad moods and she was bloody well not going to do the same for Anthony, no matter how much she cared for him.

She stood and crossed the room to him, the family watching her as if she had taken the few steps on tightrope.

"Let's go outside," she said stiffly, and brushed past him towards the entryway.

They made their way across the lawn, lips clamped into firm lines, legs growing in momentum until they were almost running. There was an unspoken understanding that they must get out of sight of the house; that this be a conversation between the two of them only—away from not only the ears—but also the eyes-of anyone else. Edith took the path beyond the lower garden that led to the temple—a columned haven that had been her escape since childhood.

Once she had reached it, she placed a hand on its familiar weathered surface and said,

"Ok, out with it. What is it I've done that's got you in such a state?" she couldn't keep her tone civil.

And neither did Anthony. He scoffed.

"I think a great many people would be upset by this, if they knew the truth," he huffed.

"The truth about what?" she sputtered. But she already knew. It was the one big secret in her life, the one that would follow her to her grave.

"The truth about Marigold." He pronounced grimly. "About her father—and her _mother_."

Edith gave a scornful laugh. "You sound like the villain in a melodrama. It's not like my having a child out of wedlock is the end of the world." She refused to tell him she regretted it; to admit to any wrong. She'd cared for Michael and she'd dealt with the consequences. And she could _never_ regret Marigold.

"It is pretty near the end of it where _we_ come from," Anthony registered the patronizing disdain in his voice, but he couldn't stop it. "That you could…with a _married_ man no less…"

"Anthony!" she erupted, " _when_ are you going to acknowledge that I know my own mind?! That I can make my _own_ decisions, make my own life! That _I_ am the only one who can determine what is best for me! Not Michael, and not you!"

He gaped at her, and through her anger and hurt Edith had the conflicting desire to catch him up and kiss the tension from his face.

Anthony felt her chastisement like an electric shock. Was that it? That the disgust and anger and jealousy all stemmed from the same root; his own guilt. He'd had her life all planned—she couldn't marry him, it wasn't good enough for her, no matter what she wanted, he knew better. So he'd freed her. But not to have an extramarital affair—to find a husband who would cherish her and make her happy—to find a perfect marriage of equals, and passion and… She hadn't followed the plan— _his_ plan for her life, which was the only thing that had made the pain of giving her up worthwhile.

And yet it wasn't up to him. It had never been about him. It was about them both. What they _both_ wanted. And Edith had decided that she wanted to disregard society's rules and reach for happiness in any way she could find it. Which couldn't be wrong. And Marigold…Marigold wasn't wrong, or bad, or tainted. She was sweet and pure and loved.

"You're right," he said at last, his voice gruff and low. "I've been a complete ass. What right do I have to judge you? To tell you anything, when I'm the one—" his voice became choked with emotion and tears glimmered at his lashes.

 _Damnit_ , he was done with being angry or guilty or lonely. He wanted to be _happy_.

Edith's anger evaporated as well, replaced with a bitter sorrow and remorse. Tears began to roll down her cheeks. Through trembling lips she said,

"I'll admit it's not how I meant to live my life. But—" a tremor of anguish temporarily halted her words, "nothing in my life has turned out the way it was supposed to. No husband, and a daughter that I can't acknowledge to the world. I can't even…tell her I'm her mother, her _real_ mother…"

Heartbreak overtook her and she turned her face away, bowing into her hand as she shook with sobs.

After several moments she felt the warm comfort of Anthony's arm around her shoulders, his broad chest and soft brown waistcoat comforting against her cheek, and the smell of him…was like home; solace and happiness and desire in one dizzying bundle.

"Oh Anthony," she moaned into his chest, "this is all so stupid. I love you. I don't care if you don't love me, but I love you, and I'm sorry that Marigold upsets you so much, I'm sorry about a lot of things…" she trailed off, burrowing into his chest as though she could crawl into his coat pocket and remain with him that way.

"Oh Darling," he said in an exhalation that was part wail, part croon, "forgive me. I've been abominable. I don't resent Marigold—" his words tumbled into her hair as he clutched her to him "I adore her, and I think I could adore you both if you'd let me—because I love you too, my dearest darling, my dearest, dearest Edith."

From the cavern of his chest Edith gave a laughing sob. For several moments it was all the reaction she could muster beyond clinging to him.

At last she raised her head, reaching out a hand to smooth the divot of his temple, then let her palm rest against his cheek, streaked with tears.

"I'm afraid it won't be as easy as just saying the words," she said. "But I'm willing to try."

"Again." She added with an amused smile.

"They do say third time's a charm," he joked through a sniffle.

"Well, you've plenty of that," she replied affectionately.

He smiled; an ardent, adoring smile that made Edith's heart swell with utter joy.

Edith stretched on her toes and he bent to meet her.

The kiss was so profoundly sweet that she almost felt like crying again. Instead she sipped greedily at the sensation, chasing it deeper and deeper until it seemed as though she'd drunk it into her very veins, charging her whole body with a blissful sensuousness.

It seemed to Anthony that he couldn't press Edith close enough, he couldn't kiss her deeply enough, couldn't do justice to the intensity of his love for her. Reality became a blur of Edith's name rushing from his mouth in hushed, shallow breaths, her warm skin beneath his touch, and the aching thrill of her lips matching his own frenzied search for satisfaction, for possession, for an end to the endless hunger.

All the years of wanting, of love denied, converged upon them in one overwhelming torrent of need.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," she repeated again and again in an incoherent mantra as Anthony worked the neckline of her gown apart, steering her to the interior curving wall of the small shelter.

"My darling, oh, my dearest, I love you, my darling, my sweet…" he whispered in an equally mindless stream as she clawed through waist coat, shirt and tie to run a hand over his broad chest and around his back.

He growled with pleasure at her touch, rejoining with a devouring kiss at her mouth.

Perhaps he was just about to become self-conscious as he had not had time or awareness to do before. Perhaps he'd have continued on this liberating wave of adoration until Edith was thoroughly ravished right in her parent's back yard. But any intentions he may have had were squashed by a small, earnest voice calling,

"Mummy Edith? Seranony?"

Nanny's harassed tones followed.

"Marigold Irene, come back here. Leave your mother be."

Anthony was barely able to get his waistcoat buttoned and his shirt tucked in before Marigold's curious face appeared around the edge of the bushes. Her countenance lit with a grin as she spotted Anthony.

"Seranony!" she cried, hurrying to stop just short of colliding with his knees.

"You feeling better!" she chirruped.

"Yes, I'm feeling much better," he remarked, meeting Edith's gaze.

"You come to dinner-time?" Marigold asked.

"Oh, I…don't know…" Anthony turned a questioning face to Edith.

"I think that would be very nice."

She leaned down to speak directly to her daughter. "Sweetheart, we might be seeing a lot more of Sir Anthony from now on. Would you like that?"

"Oh, yes! I like Seranony!" Marigold said enthusiastically.

Edith laughed, her dancing eyes meeting Anthony's once again.

"So do I," she murmured, and Anthony felt his heart burst with happiness.

XXX

 _You and I_

 _We've seen it all_

 _Chasing our heart's desire_

 _Yet I still think I'm certain…_

XXX

Five weeks later, Mummy Edith and Marigold went to Locksley to have tea as usual. Seranony greeted them both in the library and they sat down on the comfy sofa. Seranony didn't sit in his usual seat, he sat on the sofa beside Mummy Edith. He held one of Mummy Edith's hands. His fingers were very long.

"Marigold," Mummy Edith began. "Sir Anthony and I have something to tell you."

XXX

… _This time it will be_

 _My happy ending._

XXX

* * *

 **A/N: This got a lot more angsty than I intended! Hopefully I'll have another installment in the songbook soon. I've got about six ideas/stories brewing at the moment, but the one that's nagging me the most is a story idea based on that Betty Hutton classic, "Murder, He Says," so stay tuned… :D**


	6. K - Kiss On My List

**A/N: Each time I post a story there is the fear that no one will read it, that the series is far enough in the past that no one will care how many ways I can find to get Edith and Anthony to kiss. So if you are reading this, you have my undying gratitude, for giving me a reason to scribble love stories, and for your lovely feedback in reviews. Your kindness and your brilliant writing are a constant source of inspiration and awe. You're all gems and I'm honored to share the fandom with you.**

 **This fic was originally started for Valentine's Day, but you can see how well that worked out. But I assure you, though my production of completed fics has slowed, I am constantly scribbling away for our OTP (my recent WIPs are numerous). I am still here for this ship in a big way!**

 **When I started this collection I was determined to do a fic based on one of Hall & Oates's hits, as their music just makes me happy (it's so darn catchy!). It's not surprising that this is what I came up with, considering how busy I myself have been with work projects over the past two-three months. They say write what you know… **

****Warning: Smut ahead!** **Rated M for scenes of a sexual nature** **.****

* * *

K – Kiss On My List

Music and Lyrics by: Daryl Hall and Jann Allen

As recorded by: Daryl Hall and John Oates

 _Your kiss is on my list_

 _Your kiss is on my list_

 _Your kiss is on my list of the best things in life_

 _Your kiss is on my list_

 _Your kiss I can't resist_

 _Because your kiss is what I miss when I turn off the light…_

XXXXX

Anthony leaned against the curling footboard in his adopted daughter's bedroom and glowered at the small scrap of paper in his fist. On the other side of the door which connected the bedroom to a dressing and bath room he could hear Marigold babbling and laughing as she played in the bath and the doting voice of the maid attending her. He read again the neat, slightly-sloping phrase:

 _Make sure Marigold has her bath._

He made a noise low in his throat, part growl, part groan and shoved the paper in his pocket. Then he turned, slumped down on the mattress, and sighed a silent exhalation of anguish, closing his eyes tight as if his lids would stem the dull ache spreading through in his chest and coagulating as a heavy lump in his throat.

He knew Edith was busy. Knew that there were times when her job would require everything from her; her time, energy, creativity, _sanity_. He knew that her office was rolling out an entirely new publication; that as owner and co-editor she was paramount to its success; knew that this meant a flurry of writes and re-writes, their removal to the London house so Edith could attend meetings upon meetings, and endless proofing. He _knew_ all this.

But it still hurt.

They'd been at dinner—Edith breezing in late, after toiling to finish proofing a cooking layout before she stopped for a quick repast.

"I'm sorry darlings," she addressed her daughter and husband through the fingers that rubbed at her eyes, "I just had to finish up that piece."

He gave a sympathetic smile. "Will you be joining us for a little bit after dinner?"

Her face grew strained. "Sadly, no. I've got two more pieces to mark up tonight, Herb is calling at ten to talk about the feedback on his sheets, and then I've got to write an introduction for a short fiction we're featuring."

He'd tried not to show his disappointment, knowing it'd been a long shot to hope she could spare the time. This preoccupation with work was common recently; except that she usually found at least an hour most nights to come into the library and play devotedly with Marigold before bedtime, then tuck her daughter in before scurrying back to her desk. Anthony's next glimpse of her would be either through slitted lids as she crawled into bed sometime around midnight or in the morning as she rose and dressed hurriedly for another long day.

"...and then there are the reader letters for the housekeeping page," Edith was verbally rattling off her to-do list… "and I have to write a letter to Monsieur Bizet about ads..."

As she continued, Anthony examined her face: wan and weary, with purple u's cupping her eyes; her jaw taut with concentration as the unseeing eyes reviewed tasks and deadlines. This sort of "conversation" had become standard as well in the past fortnight and when changing the subject one occasionally had to repeat oneself twice before Edith could fully process what had been said. She lived with a pencil tucked behind her ear and a small yellow pad at her fingertips. Anything that she needed to retain must go on that pad during these busy times, as she jokingly said "if it's not secured on paper it'll fall right out of my brain." Her desk, the breakfast table, even her nightstand were littered with to-do lists, notes, and reminders.

Her husband was able to withstand these periods of near-insanity because they were usually brief in their duration and one knew, like a minor cold, that they would pass within a week or so. But this particular busy spell was going on _three weeks_. Three weeks during which time he'd barely spent any time with his wife when she wasn't reading over a paper or playing with their daughter; and-though he was a cad to think it-three weeks in which he'd received little more than a quick kiss or an absent-minded hand squeeze. He sighed internally, reminding himself that her job fulfilled her and that he loved her and that he really was proud of her no matter how much he missed her when the clouds of publication gathered over them.

And then—

"Oh and darling, could you take on Marigold tonight? I've just got to get this work in—" He'd just begun to nod when—"here." She thrust a small yellow paper at him.

She'd given _him_ a to-do list. Anthony kept his face neutral as the bile rose in his throat. That's what her family had become—an item on her to-do lists; a box to check; _have dinner with the family_ , check, _make sure Anthony sorts out Marigold's bedtime_ , check, _go back to working on something more important_ , check. And yet that wasn't entirely true. She still found time to spend with Marigold. It was just her old worn-out husband that had become a chore. She probably wasn't bothered in the slightest that they hadn't had sex in, what was it, seventeen nights?

If Edith had noticed his withdrawn mood for the rest of her abbreviated dinner, she hadn't shown it. He'd silently brooded, letting his resentment stew and sour as she'd chatted fondly with Marigold. And as soon as the last course had been whisked way she'd hopped up and hurried back to her office, placing a perfunctory kiss on his crown as she swept from the room.

Anthony sighed again, swallowing heavily and swiping at the moisture rimming his eyes. He yearned to storm Edith's office, drag her from her work and… _god_ just touch her. Just to hold her would be a sweet pleasure that he'd missed. But that, he reminded himself, was the kind of distraction she didn't need right now, when every minute was of the essence and her deadline loomed. So instead, he'd get Marigold to bed and go to bed himself, alone.

XXXXX

Edith sighed heavily, letting her pencil fall to the desk, stretching her fingers as she slumped back in her chair. She brought that hand to her face slid it over her aching eyes. Lord but she was tired. Her brain felt worn and callused—as if the gears in her head hadn't been oiled in far too long. She was looking forward to the day this issue went to print. Then she could get back to normalcy. Get back to the daughter and husband that she missed.

She frowned at the thought. She wasn't quite sure what had possessed her to make a to-do list for Anthony. And she certainly hadn't missed that his reaction had been…well certainly not thrilled. She felt the guilt spear her chest. She _had_ neglected him terribly these past few weeks. Exhausted tears leaked slowly from the corners of her eyes. How was she supposed to balance it all? The paper and motherhood and also find the energy to be the wife that Anthony deserved? Her mind drifted…the sensation of combing her fingers through the hair at his nape, tracing the line of his neck down to his broad shoulders as he talked… Her heart throbbed with an almost painful longing. She loved Anthony, and she missed him. And the thought of him hurt… Well, she'd just _have_ to find time for him soon. Because no matter what her job asked of her, Anthony and Marigold were more important.

XXXXX

"I know that Laura, but you really don't need me to—" Edith paused as she reached the sidewalk, lifting her arm to hail a cab. As a boxy cream and black motor pulled to the curb where she and her somewhat bemused co-editor stood, Edith completed her thoughts. "You and Herb can take a look at the proofs and sign off on them. I trust your judgement. I have some shopping to do this afternoon and an important engagement tonight."

And, so saying, Edith climbed into the cab, leaving the offices of the Sketch at the unprecedented hour of two o'clock. Shortly, the driver stopped in front of a shop with the same large windows and lavishly decorated placards as most London clothiers. Only the heavy purple curtains draping the windows alluded to the intimate nature of the garments in which the company specialized. A style of "dress" that was far more daring than anything Edith had ever worn before.

She took a steadying breath, feeling the blush climb her cheeks as her pulse quickened. _No turning back now_ , she thought, _no matter how foolish this may turn out to be_.

XXXXX

Anthony had had a day for his hurt and anger to diffuse by the time the family sat down to dinner that night. A slight indignation still smoldered, but he was nothing if not pragmatic and fussing and fuming over the situation with Edith wouldn't make her any less busy. However, Edith's demeanor, shyly solicitous during the soup course and downright flirtatious by dessert couldn't help but mitigate his lingering anguish. He was blushing and grinning so much that his torte when largely untouched, his heart and his loins responding to the promise in Edith's smiles.

But he should've known better. A deadline was still a deadline, and after dinner, there had been about forty-five minutes of playtime with Marigold before Edith sighed and excused herself to her desk. She'd left Marigold to his care again and promised she "wouldn't be too long." Which, he thought moodily, meant that she might come to bed at eleven-thirty rather than midnight.

Anthony pushed the dressing room door closed behind him, sighing as he looked once again at the empty bed before him. How long would…But what was that? A distinctive, very familiar slip of yellow paper. His brow furrowed, and he approached grumpily, feeling his temper re-ignite. To-do lists on the pillow now? But as he cast his eyes to the paper, he saw that the list contained three simple items:

 _-Make sure Marigold is in bed._

 _-Disrobe._

 _-Come and kiss me._

He was still frowning when he spied a similar paper on Edith's pillow. His eyes wandered over the few short lines.

 _-Send husband to bed._

 _-Slip into something stunning._

 _-Seduce your husband._

XXXXX

Feeling rather like child creeping downstairs on Christmas Eve hoping to catch Father Christmas, Anthony padded down the empty stairs into the cavernous entryway, shuffling through sleepy silence to the library door, which hung welcomingly ajar. His heart thudded loud in his ears as he seized the doorknob, a heady mixture of nervousness and anticipation and even a little chagrin buzzing at his temples.

He blinked once, letting his eyes adjust to the change in light from the dimly lit hallway to the library he now faced. His eyes focused upon the scene and his heart stopped. The door which connected Edith's office nook to the main library hung open, and through it he could see Edith, framed in the doorway like some regal pin-up. She lounged upon her desk, her lithe body sprawled across its leather surface, her long elegant legs draping over the edge. One arm extended behind her for support, which also had the delightful effect of pushing her petite breasts forward and forming a sensual S where her spine met her bottom. Her other hand rested casually on one thigh, wedding ring glimmering in the soft light, a beacon to guide him towards the intimate harbor only inches away.

Had she been wearing the same blouse-waist frock she'd worn at dinner this pose would certainly have made his pulse quicken, but what Edith _was_ wearing was enough to give him apoplexy. Each curve was draped in a filmy silk of deep red, with ingeniously placed patches of velvety lace which cupped her breasts, barely cresting her pink nipples, and splayed over her hips and into the crease between her crossed legs. More patches of lace played around her ankles, and formed a high daring arc across her bottom towards the base of her spine. Golden waves of hair tumbled over her bare shoulders, framing dark, sparkling eyes, lush red lips and cheeks that bloomed in contrast to the ruby gown. Anthony stood, his body locked in place as electric desire raced through him.

Edith exhaled slowly, the coy smile drooping from her lips. On the other side of the library Anthony's face was rigid, suffused with redness that _could_ be arousal…or anger…or shocked disgust… As the moments passed she felt her confidence ebbing away. This was absurd, she was making a fool of herself. There _were_ women who had the looks to pull off this sort of a routine, but _she_ wasn't one of them. What if all this had no effect? What if she'd stayed from his bed so long he'd realized he didn't really want her there? A lump gathered in her throat as her mind fixated on dark, panicked thoughts. Could she survive in a marriage where Anthony didn't—

Anthony moved. She caught the hesitant step out of the corner of her eye, her muscles constricting in anticipation, her heart fairly vibrating in her chest.

"Anthony?" she mouthed, her voice choked to near inaudibility.

As if she'd awakened him from a trance, he began to move, prowling across the library, every muscle (save those in his injured arm) taut with controlled energy. He reached the doorway and halted again. He released a heavy breath, his eyes traveling over her with unconcealed hunger. She shivered beneath his gaze, her anxiety melting in a rising tide of arousal. Her skin flushed with heat, every nerve straining for his touch.

As if bound by the same siren call, he reached his hand forward, drawing his thumb along the edge of her face, his fingers smoothing over her cheek and under her jaw to her neck. He gave a tremulous sigh, and she stretched forward eagerly to receive his mouth as his lips pressed to hers.

She gave a soft moan deep in her throat, her body curling into the teasing pleasure of his mouth, which nipped tenderly, as if savoring a favorite delicacy. She made her own enthusiastic repast, slipping her tongue forward to taste a favorite part of his lower lip, reaching her arms up to hook around his neck and comb her fingers into the soft waves at his nape. He groaned and increased his pressure, his powerful jaw working in reverent demand as his hand slid along a silken path to her back, pressing her to his broad, heated chest. She shivered as she felt the warmth of his body, thrillingly diffused through the thin layer of her gown. He felt, tasted, smelled _so good_ , _so right_ —a rightness that had been missing in her hectic life over the past three weeks. _This was what being married was all about_ , her soul sighed happily, _this was_ _Anthony_ , _her_ _Anthony_. She began to feel herself drifting, transforming from flesh and bone to fevered sensation, the skin beneath her husband's palm, the lips beneath his searing kisses, the insistent, wet ache at her core…

And then his mouth was gone from hers, and his lips and tongue began to devour her jaw, neck, collarbone.

"God I love you, Edith," he murmured into her hair as he pressed kisses to the base of her skull.

The short breathy growl conveyed all the loneliness of their estrangement, his raw need for both physical and emotional reunion, and an almost desperate, intrinsic adoration.

The intensity of it cut through her lusty haze and pierced her heart. She felt the tears well in her eyes and spill down her cheeks almost in the same moment. And then she was weeping, tears streaming from her eyes as he stopped his kisses and hugged her against him.

"I'm sorry, my love." She stuttered anguished. "I'm so- _so_ sorry I ever made you feel—unimportant… or worthless or….second best… You and Marigold are more dear to me than…" she choked on a sob. "And I'm so sorry about work. It's just gotten so…"

"Hush, love." He huffed out from behind his own sob. "You don't have to apologize for your work. I'm _proud_ of what you do. It's I who should apologize for behaving like a selfish schoolboy. I know how you struggle to keep things balanced sometimes. You don't owe me anything, I—"

"But I do, Anthony!" She pulled her head up to look into his eyes, one watery gaze meeting another. She placed a hand on his cheek, glimmering tears wet beneath her fingers. "I owe you the same love and support that you show to _me_ every day. I owe you sympathy and companionship. And I owe you _this_."

Edith snaked her hand between them and boldly let her fingers slide over his half erect penis. His eyes widened infinitesimally, but he didn't pull away.

"I owe it to myself, too. I've missed you, Anthony. And I need you just as much as you need me. You are my _husband_ , and for a little while I want to forget about being an editor and just be your _wife_."

For a moment Anthony looked as though he might say something. Instead he just gave a small shake of his head…and kissed her. His lips were achingly-sweet, warm and soothing and arousing in the chill aftermath of tears. His lips regained their former impassioned rhythm, deep dipping strokes mining pleasured moans from deep within her, spreading dizzying waves of sensation down in repeated currents over her peaked nipples and into the swiftly reawakened damp heat between her quivering thighs. Her hand was still stuck awkwardly between them, so she let her hesitant touch become more bold, closing her hand over his erection where it strained against his pajama bottoms. His body trembled in response, and she felt his chest vibrate with a groaning purr.

His own strong fingers slid upwards to her breast, one thumb coasting over her lace-clad nipple before his mouth took its place, the dancing muscle of his tongue blending with silk and velvet to drown her in glorious pleasure. His hand now free, he groped for the helm of her flimsy gown, flipping it upwards as his fingers climbed her thigh in a languid caress.

"My wife," he sighed as he lifted his head from her bosom to meet her gaze. His bright eyes glittered with passionate admiration. "My beautiful," he murmured, his long fingers playing in the curls at her entrance, "beautiful wife."

He kept his eyes on her face as his thumb found her, exhaling with a combination of smug satisfaction and greed and pride as he watched her wriggle and whimper at his touch. He worked the delicate flesh in skilled circles, Edith careening against the support of her hands as he slipped one, then two long, deft fingers inside her. He gave a twisted lust-darkened grin at the audible sluice as he pushed into her.

"All wet just for me," he murmured, his fingers working in a slow rhythm, "and to think you've been saving up all this-" he punctuated with a flick of his finger that made Edith give a rejoicing yelp "-all this time, sitting at your desk, all alone, all empty…" his voice was just above a whisper now, growling ferally as the wicked words dripped from his usually quiet, proper mouth. He withdrew his fingers, and Edith protested with a low whine.

She felt herself lowering back to earth, her thudding heartbeat becoming loud in her ears as he took a step backwards, shrugging one-armed out of his dressing gown, disdaining to catch it in the agile maneuver he usually employed, so that it dropped to the floor with a dull rustle. Edith leaned forward then, taking her cue to tug at his waistband, guiding the trousers downward until they joined the gown. She took a beat to admire what was by now a familiar but still enthralling sight—her husband's long lean form, not rippling with muscles yet cunningly shaped by his well-regulated exercise routines. It was the luck of being twenty years younger that her own added plumpness as the years passed wouldn't phase him so much when she didn't exercise quite as conscientiously. Of course no amount of exercise could revive his nerves. But far from repulsing her, the injured arm; that peculiar imperfection that was only her husband's, was simply another beloved part of him, like a birth mark or the shape of a bellybutton—it was simply _Anthony_. And _how_ she loved him.

His hand returned, his face ruddy and grim with need, clear blue eyes intense. He splayed his fingers over her stomach, coaxing her to lie back against the cool surface of her desk.

"Wait" Edith registered a thought, "don't you want to take this off?" She made a clumsy gesture toward her negligee.

He paused a moment, eyeing the apparently seamless garment.

He leaned close to her ear, nipping at her lobe as he whispered, "I don't think I want to take the time to find out _how_ to…"

Edith's breathy laugh was caught by his kiss before he straightened, his clever hand coasting to her ankle and up to her thigh in repeated strokes, until he had secured one slender perfumed ankle against his shoulder, turning and kissing the sensitive curve of her arch. She gasped at the tingling sensation his mouth engendered, but then he was raising her other leg, insinuating himself even further into the valley between them. She could feel the ridge of him against her folds, radiating heat towards her center.

He paused, taking in the sight of her, flattened atop her desk, the shimmering crimson bunched around her waist, her creamy legs draped over his shoulders.

He let out a ragged breath. "My God Edith, you are so very beautiful."

She beamed up at him, lifting her arm in a gesture of affection which he caught with his hand, threading his fingers into hers. He gave it a squeeze before bringing it down to the edge of the desk.

"You're going to want to hold on, I think," he murmured.

One corner of her mouth kicked up, before stretching into a pleasured O as she felt him breach her. In one swift movement he was filling her completely. He shuddered, closing his eyes for a long moment before he opened them, locking his gaze on Edith's as he increased his rhythm, deep rolling strides that drove her to a mindless apex, until she was straining, pushing her torso up to meet his almost excruciatingly wonderful movements. They filled the small room with the cacophony of their unthinking pleasure, Edith wailing and panting with an abandon that would have mortified her had been conscious, Anthony grunting and growling like some kind of laboring beast. But they both went silent at the moment of climax—Edith releasing a noiseless scream as the pleasure sent her tumbling through white light, Anthony watching her as his own bliss wracked his body and he exploded inside her.

Edith lay with Anthony slumped ungracefully over her chest, her heartrate calming as she took long slow breaths. She closed her eyes, dazed by the pleasure and the recklessness of what had just happened. She could hardly believe they'd been so debauched, so brazen. She remembered the look on Anthony's face, how he'd talked about her body with such a greedy, animalistic reverence. She felt a responding thrill tickle her spine. She and Anthony had discovered something new in one another tonight; brought on by the emotional strain and stress of the past weeks, which left no self-control left to repress their more primal instincts. But though her upbringing told her that what they'd done was lewd, shocking; she couldn't feel ashamed. She felt magnificent.

Anthony lifted his head, sparkling eyes showering her with adoration.

"You are quite possibly the most amazing woman on this earth," he murmured, as he bent to nip a tender kiss against her mouth.

"And you," Edith grinned and kissed him in turn, "are one of the best flatterers."

Several minutes later they lay curled together on the sofa in the adjoining library, the salacious gown draped over a nearby chair so that they met skin to skin. Anthony's fingers smoothed lazily over Edith's shoulders, arms, breasts, as if he were trying to memorize her shape in its minutest detail. Occasionally his lips joined the survey, glancing over her neck and shoulders with little murmurs of praise. Edith lay serenely still, listening to their bodies sighing together; as his touch slowly stirred the still glowing embers of desire into an awakening flame.

She began to squirm unconsciously, instinctively pressing her bottom even closer to his pelvis.

"Oh my darling," he sighed huskily in response, nuzzling a kiss into her neck, "It's not that I don't want you…God knows I…" he gave a small growl. "How I wish my body could keep up with _all_ the things I want to do to you…"

He felt the familiar mix of shame and guilt coiling into a knot in his chest.

However, Edith turned over her shoulder and gave him an impish and not at all disappointed smile.

"What kinds of things?" she cooed.

He gave an equally sinful grin and bent his mouth to her ear.

Edith sighed deeply as her lids fluttered closed. Warm breaths skittered over her ear and shoulder, interpolated with light kisses, his reverent fingers continued to work over her now budded skin, and that elegant honey-gravel voice was detailing deliciously obscene ways that her body might be pleasurably exalted.

"Oh," she breathed when his sensual catalogue halted. "I think those are all excellent suggestio-" she gasped as his fingers reached the crease of her inner thigh.

"Well," he purred into her ear, "why don't you add them to my to do list, hm?"

Edith's grin was displaced by a devouring kiss.

XXX

 _Your kiss is on my list_

 _Your kiss I can't resist_

 _Because your kiss is on my list of the best things in life…_

XXX


	7. D - Dirty Laundry (PART I)

**A/N: HAPPY ANDITH FEST 2018! Rejoice! Not only is our OTP still going strong, I am here to report that there** _ **is**_ **creativity after heartache! It has been a struggle to write over the past several months, my apologies to you lovelies. Without becoming too maudlin, let me just say I've been experiencing an ongoing and major upheaval in my life, the kind that makes writing romance in particular quite difficult. I'm not certain when the second part of this fic will be posted, but I couldn't bear not to contribute for Andith Fest. Because I am stronger than despair and mightier than grief and Andith needs me!**

 **I want to thank you, as always, for your readership and support. You're absolute darlings who make this ship great, and I couldn't do it without you!**

* * *

 ****TW: Suggestions of gun violence.****

* * *

D – Dirty Laundry

Music & Lyrics by: Charles Aznavour, Shana Halligan, Michael Railton, and Kiran Shahani

As recorded by: Bitter:Sweet

PART I

 _I've got a bad girl and that's all right with me._

 _Her dirty laundry is nothing that I can't keep clean._

 _And when she needs an alibi, she can use me-_

 _All night…_

Crash!

Anthony's eyebrows knit together behind his reading glasses. He released a regretful sigh, his shoulders drooping in a harassed manner as he lowered his book, tossing it aside as he swung out of bed, donning a robe and slippers. He grumbled internally as he descended the too-steep staircase in his book-shop-cum-apartment. The air seemed five degrees colder as he reached the small but neat kitchen at the bottom, and he frowned at the back door. It was April, but the evenings were still chilly. A _nd damp_ , he grumped a little more. He unfastened the latch and lock and leaned his head out to examine the narrow alley behind his shop. There was his bin, on its side, spilling rubbish in a soggy, and faintly smelly, heap. He wrinkled his nose as the stink of spoiling milk and wilted lettuce reached his nostrils. _Bloody raccoons_ he thought, as he stooped to pick up a gaping egg carton. But before he'd clasped it, another noise made him freeze.

A dull clonk sounded from behind him…from the front room of the bookshop... _inside_ the flat.

He fell a thrill of warning chase along his spine and arrest his breathing, as if someone had drawn the laces on his lungs suddenly tight. He exhaled in a low puff, steeling himself as he turned stealthily back into the kitchen, shunching his door closed as quietly as possible. He stalked the short distance across the room until linoleum floor met industrial carpet, until apartment gave way to bookshop, light from the kitchen sketching dim outlines of bookshelves before him. He paused, straining his eyes in the dark, willing his ears to hear beyond his own shallow breaths, willing his senses to flush out the source of the noise. His mind raced as his body stood still. _It was a mouse or something, a rat—maybe the raccoon had somehow gotten into the shop…_

From the street, the rumble of a car engine split the silence and made him jump almost out of his skin. Past the displays in the shop's front windows he could see the flicker of police lights. Car doors slammed. Male voices spoke authoritatively to one another, then disappeared… The shop fell silent and dark once more. He exhaled a breath, and then-

Out of the corner of his eye; a blur in the darkness.

"Excuse me," he called, trying to imbue his tones with as much authority as he could muster.

The darkness moved again. Outside an officer called to his fellow. And then, there was a figure before him, looming out of the shadows to his left. A lean, feminine frame, clad in black combat clothing; complete with concealing cap, and black leather gloves clasped around a pistol that was precisely trained somewhere along his abdomen.

The laces across his chest jerked even tighter as his muscles locked in terror.

"Please, I—" he choked.

Her eyes met his, and for what seemed an eternity they just stared at one another. Her dark eyes were wary and intelligent, and he felt the assessment in her gaze, as if she were trying to read his very soul. At last, she exhaled a long, slow breath. She lowered the weapon until it was trained at his brown slippers. He relaxed only marginally. He was pretty sure she could easily shoot his toes off.

"Do y—" the woman started, but the sound of the door closing a few flats down made her flinch. "Show me to your bedroom," she snapped.

"Sure, yes," he managed. "I'll—you don't have to wave that gun at me…I'll be happy to…"

He gestured towards the kitchen.

It was a fairly awkward ascent, both of them trying to climb the narrow staircase while she kept him—or at least something in the vicinity of his ankles, covered with her pistol. As they reached the landing which opened into his bedroom, voices carried up from the stoop next door. Her brown eyes widened, and she hastily knelt and deposited the gun under the foot of the bed.

As Anthony watched, she began to strip off her clothes—black gloves, jacket, shirt, boots, and tight-fitting combat trousers. Her black cap came off to reveal a tumble of red-blonde curls, which, upon conjuring a hair tie seemingly from thin air, she deftly bundled into a high loose knot. Now clad only in comparatively simple underclothes-that were _not_ black, he noted-she strode swiftly to his dresser, ransacking the drawers until she found what he recognized as an old Heidelberg-U t-shirt. This she tugged over her head.

"Socks?" she shot over her shoulder as she pulled open another drawer.

"In the bottom right," he answered perfunctorily. He felt stunned. What on earth was going on in his quiet little flat?

Her frantic fingers snatched up a pair of wooly socks and shoved her feet into them, only just managing to maintain her balance. Then she lunged back towards the bed, shoving her pile of black garments and her bag deep beneath the mattress, before—

Dear God, not only was she half dressed in _his_ clothes—she was _lying_ in his _bed_ , her slender fingers clutching the edge of the coverlet with whitened knuckles.

He stood, awestruck, the situation so preposterous that he couldn't marshal words. What on earth did one say in these circumstances? This was beyond anything Emily Post ever conceived.

Thudding knocks came from below, and she flinched, her eyes flicking to his. Deep brown eyes, terrified, pleading, and only half-hopeful. That hint of despair, the surety that he _wouldn't_ help her…

He turned away, clomping down the narrow stairs for the second time that night, crossing through the kitchen to open the back door…

"Anthony Strallan?" a police sergeant consulted his notepad.

"Yes?"

"Excuse me sir, we are sorry to disturb you but we are in the process of an investigation. We're searching for a female, dressed in full black, armed with at least one pistol. An eyewitness said he saw her disappear into one of these houses. I'm afraid we'll have to search the premises."

"Oh, er, yes, of course," Anthony mumbled, stepping aside to let four officers file into his modest kitchen as his heart bashed against his ribcage.

The Sergeant addressed him again. "Would you show me upstairs?"

"Uh, yes," Anthony replied, still feeling slightly dazed.

He half expected to find an empty room. But there she was, stretched languidly on the bed, long bare legs crossed at the ankles, reading _his_ National Geographic History magazine with seeming calm.

She looked up when he entered, her face breaking into a tender smile. "What is it darling?" she cooed, affecting alarm when she spied the sergeant. "What are the police doing here? Are we in danger?"

The officer was eyeing her critically.

"Would you mind introducing me to your friend?"

"Oh, of course," Anthony's gaze met hers again, and he could see the panic behind her nonchalant façade. Suddenly the haze lifted, his pulse drumming out perfect clarity. And without thought or hesitation he opened his mouth and he lied.

"This is my fiancée." He stated, calmly.

The officer's slitted eyes narrowed impossibly further. His gaze traveled from one to the other, clearly considering whether a young vibrant woman would really be involved with a tired old shoe like him.

His hard eyes returned to Anthony's face. "And her name is?"

A fleeting panic raced through Anthony's mind, but he forced himself to remain calm and casual.

"Diana. Armstrong." He let his lips spread into a proud half-smile, gazing over at her fondly. "Soon to be Mrs. Diana Strallan."

She smiled back with playful affection. "Oh love, you know I plan to hyphenate. So it'll be Diana _Armstrong_ -Strallan."

He tutted affectionately and went to sit on the bed, taking her outstretched hand. Her fingers were slender but not dainty, soft but not delicate, and he was reminded how deftly they handled a gun. But as he curled them in his own, pressing their palms together, a swift jolt of euphoria hit him square in the chest, and his heart skipped a beat. It suddenly seemed unreasonably intimate, her fingertips grazing the back of his hand, her knuckles bending to his own… He couldn't help wondering what it would feel like to fold her in his arms as easily as into his palm. As soon as the thought appeared, a small, persistent craving whispered at the back of his mind. He realized that the sensation he was feeling was _trust_ …he was sharing a tiny moment of _trust_ with her, and a part of him—the part that was becoming louder and more insistent by the moment—wanted more of that trust. _Much_ more. He didn't know anything about her, but in this sudden moment of connection, he _wanted_ to know her. In every sense of the word.

He raised his eyes from their joined hands to her face, lit with such radiant adoration that his heart stuttered once more, temporarily forgetting that this was all an act, that he'd only laid eyes on this truly astounding woman not a half hour ago…

"Hmmm. And she has been here with you all evening?"

Anthony nodded. "We had a quiet dinner and—"

Edith spoke then, releasing his hold and letting her fingers dance along his nape in a subtly erotic gesture. "Then we came to bed…"she finished.

Anthony felt the caress in delightful currents of heat which went skittering through him, stoking and stirring his desire for her. Certainly he was not immune to the more sensual messages her touch implied, the swift charge of "beautiful woman; attracted to you; act now!" But more than that, with each passing moment the whispers of wanting became more of a shout. This intimacy was so tempting…he longed for it to become more than just fabrication.

He forcibly reminded himself it was just that, a fabrication, that he did not know a thing about this woman, that what he was feeling was all part of the illusion.

The sergeant's sharp gaze traveled over her bare legs, and the underwear peeking out from beneath the hem of his t-shirt. Once again the officer seemed to be considering the veracity of her claim that she might be sexually attracted to a man so many years her senior. As if to counter his unspoken doubts, she scooted closer and nestled her head into the crook of Anthony's neck. He forced his gasp into a slow inhale, which filled his nostrils with the clean brisk scent of lavender raised on the heat of her skin, which suited her far better than any soft floral perfume. She was not voluptuous, her curves were more elongated and subtle, but beneath the cotton of his t-shirt he could feel their warmth against his chest, the dip of her waist, the round of her thigh, the swell of her bosom… It was perfectly instinctive to curl his arm around her waist, to pull her to him and snuggle his chin over her soft hair…

"Did y—" the policeman began. But he was cut short by a voice from below.

"Sergeant, we are clear down here. One of the bins is knocked over. The suspect may have climbed onto the roof."

The sergeant gave a grunt, taking a step towards the head of the stairs. He turned back over his shoulder, once again fixing Edith with an appraising glare.

"It appears we may have disturbed your evening unnecessarily," he muttered, and then he turned and disappeared down the stairs.

Neither of them moved, or even breathed until they heard four pairs of boots thump across the threshold and the door bang shut.

Then, the woman let out a long, slow, tremulous exhale. She leaned out his embrace, and his body whined at the loss of her. Her hand disappeared from his neck, and her fists tugged at the hem of the too-short tee, trying to elongate it through sheer will.

"Thank you," she said, in a flat tone.

"Uh, you're welcome," he said lamely.

An awkward silence stretched between them.

"I can hardly believe you covered for me," she said, her voice still carefully controlled.

He huffed a small laugh. "I can hardly believe it myself. I don't know what came over me."

"Well, I'm truly grateful. Really."

She fell silent again. Several moments passed and then A small smile cracked through her stolid demeanor.

"Diana?" she queried.

He smiled back. "Seemed appropriate. Goddess of the hunt."

The mirth shrank from her face, and her eyes lowered. Silence again.

When she spoke again, her voice was thick. "My name is Edith," she offered.

He nodded. "And you already know my name," he wanted to make her smile again, anything to banish that stiff, hollow look from her face. "Not only that, but my shirt size and what kind of socks I like to wear."

The smile peeped out again, this time sheepish. "I'm sorry. I don't usually do things like that. I promise. It was _very_ good of you…"

"Don't worry yourself, it's no trouble. Though as you've found what I'm sure is my only pair of socks without a hole in them, I'm afraid I'll have to insist on them back," he joked.

A true, appreciative grin flashed out this time, and he felt the triumph bloom in his chest.

She looked up at him then, her eyes searching his face for several long moments.

"I wouldn't have shot you," she murmured at last. "Even if you hadn't helped me. I'm not—"

"I know," he said quietly. And improbably, he meant it. He hadn't been sure what she was going to say, but somehow, he understood. He knew that he was in no danger with her.

She nodded. Her stiff expression shifted slightly. Her face still hid much, but her features had grown softer, contemplative. Her gaze traveled over him again, appraising, and perhaps…admiring?

"I don't know why you decided to cover for me tonight." She repeated, her voice low and thick with something that might have been anguish; or fear, or gratitude? She swallowed. "The—"

A car ignition chugged to life in the street below. Her eyes widened, and she edged towards the window to peek through the blinds, keeping her silhouette cloaked by the curtains on one side. Anthony watched her, noting her agility and stealth, reminding himself that this warrior-spy was the same woman who had seemed so tender and trusting mere minutes ago. Headlights flared and disappeared. When she turned back to face him, the tension and gravity had returned to her expression.

"Lord knows what you must think of me," she began. "I've broken into your house, threatened you with a gun, stolen your clothes, even affected your reputation—you could be married or engaged or—"

"I'm not married," he assured her. _Though why he'd felt the need to volunteer that information…_

"Well, anyway. I know I've taken a lot…and I shouldn't ask for…" she looked away, her eyes tracing the crossed lines of his plaid bedspread. "The police will probably comb this area for a few hours. That sergeant—I'll bet anything that he's watching the house right now…"

Anthony watched her face, which had drained of color over the course of that last sentence.

She was afraid.

"You want to stay." Anthony concluded for her. "Overnight."

"I know it's a lot to ask-completely mad I know," her words tumbled out. "I'll sleep on the floor even, just…"

"You don't have to sleep on the floor," he said, a smile in his voice. "As long as you promise not to shoot me in my sleep."

She raised her eyes to his then. "The truth is, you have no way of knowing if I will or won't. There's no reason you should trust me."

She was right. He knew absolutely _nothing_ about her. And if the police were looking for her that was probably a good sign she _shouldn't_ be trusted. But it appeared that any sense he had was useless right now, vanquished by a simple hand clasp.

He shrugged. "If you were going to shoot me, surely you'd have done so already. And as you say, there's a police patrol just down the block."

"That gun only has rubber bullets," she confessed, suddenly, and her eyes willed him to understand. He gave the slightest of nods.

"Anyway, I won't shoot you," her gaze deepened as the moments stretched, "Anthony."

He gave a small smile.

"You shouldn't make a promise like that before you discover whether or not I snore. Now, do you like your pillow fluffy or hard?"

Her smile was grateful, if a little tremulous. "You're a good man, Anthony Strallan. I'm lucky it was your house I decided to try."

XXX

Anthony awoke, staring into darkness as he registered a sensation of movement. The mattress trembled beneath him, and labored breaths puffed from across the bed. Another moment and his groggy brain realized that the shaking was coming from _her_ , the mysterious house-breaker he was letting share his bed. One more blink and he understood—she was _crying_. Weeping so hard that the whole bed shuddered.

"Edith?" he breathed, using her name for the first time.

"Edith," he repeated again when there was no response. Suddenly he understood the antiquated tradition of sticking to last names until one was more intimately acquainted. It felt odd to be trying to comfort someone _personally_ when all he knew was the name, _not_ the person at all. He reached out a hand, hoping he was placing it on her shoulder and not somewhere inappropriate. "Edith," he tried again for lack of anything better to say, "Can I, ah…?"

But he wasn't sure what he could do. She was a stranger, and he couldn't begin to fathom what it was that had her so upset. So he merely compressed his fingers gently over her shoulder blade, and listened to her weeping. He felt the anguish invade his own chest, her piteous sobs finding that tiny thread of longing and tugging at it. _No_ , he thought. _No._ She shouldn't be so unhappy. It was simply _wrong_.

"Oh my dear," he exclaimed. "Would you…care for a shoulder to cry on?"

She shifted, and before he knew it she was buried in his broad chest, trembling and whimpering with utter wretchedness. He slowly and carefully closed his arms around her thin frame, rubbing soothing circles into her back.

At some point, she stopped crying.

At some point, he fell asleep.

In the morning she was gone.

XXX


End file.
